The Spectrum Detective
by Ashtrees
Summary: A series of one-shots about what life is like for Sherlock who is on the autism spectrum. The latest chapter: An author's note - I won't be updating for a while.
1. John's Guide To AS

_Author's Note_: _I wanted to write a series of one-shots about what it would be like for Sherlock if he had Asperger's Syndrome. I have tried to aim for a balance of keeping Sherlock in character whilst trying to be accurate to what Asperger's Syndrome is and what it can be like for people who have it. I am no expert on the subject and I offer sincere apologies if I have gotten anything seriously wrong. Thank you._

_Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters._

A Brief Guide to Asperger's Syndrome for Sherlock's Clients!

The Personal Blog of Dr John H Watson

**John:** Cases are coming in pretty slow and far between at the moment. We're now on Day 3 of absolute client silence and Sherlock is starting to get a bit tetchy. But, at least he's occupying himself with numerous chemistry experiments that mainly seem to involve blowing up fruit. Cautiously, I asked if the experiment was going wrong, because at that point Sherlock had managed to explode a whole bunch of bananas, one by one, with their mush splattered all over the kitchen. But, Sherlock assured me that to a true scientist that there is no such thing as a bad result, and so the pointless destruction of fresh produce must go on. He's now moved onto the pineapple, but I think that he'll be stopping soon judging by the loud bang and subsequent swearing. Apparently it hurts being pelted by high-speed fragments of exploding pineapples. They do have plenty of sharp, pointy bits. As for me, all this free time should be used for typing up past cases for you guys to read, but instead I thought I'd talk about the man himself.

So, here it is…

**A Brief Guide to Asperger's Syndrome for Sherlock's Clients!**

Okay, okay, I know that this may seem a bit of an odd subject to want to talk about in a blog. But, you'd be surprised at how often people ask me if Sherlock does have Asperger's, so I thought that I could at least give you a basic outline of what it is; although, I'm no expert on the subject. And of course, all people are different, so Asperger's won't look the same for everyone.

**Sherlock**: And John's an ex-army doctor with average, dull, qualifications, an expert in war wounds, but not Asperger's. Don't expect him to be right about everything.

**John**: Oh, hello. Finished playing in the kitchen, have we? Your face is bleeding! And you have a pineapple leaf stuck in your hair…

**Sherlock**: Yes. I admit that there is such a thing as a bad result.

**John:** Heh. Anyway, Asperger's Syndrome is also known as Higher Functioning Autism. It was named after Hans Asperger.

**Sherlock**: Your knowledge astounds me.

**John**: I've listed some of the signs and symptoms which stand out the most to me about Sherlock.

1) Maintaining eye contact can make it difficult for Sherlock to concentrate on what you are saying. So, if he looks away or closes his eyes, he is not doing it to be rude. It is so that he can absorb all of the facts and give you his full attention.

**Sherlock**: Unless it is a boring case, in which case I am being rude.

**John**: 2) In social situations, the more people present the more information there is to process. Sherlock finds that the more people who are working on a case with him, the harder it gets.

**Sherlock**: Yes. In the taxi driver case when Lestrade set up that fake drugs bust to bully me, I found that there so many people talking and moving around and making noise, it was hard to think straight. Anderson's face was the last straw. And I may have shouted a little bit at Mrs Hudson. Really, I need quiet and stillness in order to think properly.

Also, despite what John says, I can have a _boring_ (normal) conversation with people. But, it will leave me feeling drained afterwards.

**John**: 3) Many people with Asperger's can suffer from sensory overloads. So, it could be caused by bright lights, certain kinds of noises, smells, textures…it really depends on the individual. But, when you are extra sensitive to something, it can really hit you hard and make some parts of everyday life difficult to cope with. For example, if you really can't stand the sound or feel of heavy rain, then you may feel like you want to avoid going out while it's wet.

**Sherlock**: And everyone hates the supermarket.

**John**: No. You're not talking about the supermarket. If you want to rant about it for five hours straight, go downstairs to Mrs Hudson. Or go to Mycroft. He was born middle-aged. I bet he hates the shops too. It can be a point of bonding for you two.

**Sherlock**: I thought you'd value my insight. I'm trying to be helpful.

**John**: Fine. Tell us why Sherlock Holmes hates going to the supermarket. But, keep it short and on topic.

**Sherlock**: What John fails to appreciate is that it actually hurts me to go into a crowded shop. Fairgrounds and amusement parks are even worse. What I feel is actual pain in my head, eyes and ears.

The shops are always crowded, with people brushing against you, talking loudly. Music blares out. The floors are shiny and reflect the harsh lights straight back into your eyes. They are constantly rearranging the shelves. One moment you're standing in the warm, bakery section smelling fresh bread, but then suddenly you walk into the cold, refrigerated section for frozen food. All of this is deliberately designed to confuse people. The bleeping of items being scanned makes my ears hurt and the lights are disorientating, causing me to bump into things, as well as giving me a head ache. And there are far too many food labels to read. This is why I allow John to take care of the shopping. I recommend wearing sunglasses and ear plugs.

**John**: Yes, well done.

**John**: 4) Then there is the face-blindness. Sometimes it can take Sherlock a moment or two to recognise a person he knows well if, for example, they are in a place he doesn't expect them to be or if they have changed their appearance.

**Sherlock**: Wrong. Face-blindness, or prosopagnosia, refers to a person's impaired ability to read facial expressions.

**John**: Which can slow your down your ability to recognise people, as you know full well. What unusual sight did we see in Baker Street last night?

**Sherlock**: A man jogging.

**John**: Nothing odd about that in itself, except when you recall the identity of that man. Who was it? Admit that you struggled a little bit. I know I did.

**Sherlock**: It was Mycroft.

**John**: To be fair, I had to do a double take, too, before I realised who it was. Seeing the man in shorts and carrying an umbrella is enough to shock anyone.

**John: **5) Sherlock has an amazing ability to become completely absorbed in different tasks. It's a bit strange to see at first when he doesn't even notice that you're there and sometimes it can a bit of a pain if you need his attention. But, he also needs that time alone. I'm the opposite. I enjoy meeting up with my friends or girlfriend to recharge my batteries. But, that focus allows him to unwind and come out refreshed, although he may need reminding that he needs to take a break e.g. to eat or have a drink.

**Sherlock:** If I don't answer my mobile or respond to your email straight away it might because I am absorbed in another of my hobbies: a chemistry experiment, playing the violin or even watching a chat show on TV. I once spent eight straight hours working on making a Periodic Table made out of carved vegetables. I hadn't even noticed the time or stopped for a break. I was surprised to find that John had disappeared even though I had just been talking to him.

**John**: 6) People with Asperger's can have unusually intense interests in narrow subjects. Sherlock likes to categorise things. They include his love of the Periodic Table, the differences between 300 types of tobacco ash; soil types, golf clubs, violins and of course an encyclopaedic knowledge of all the unusual crimes from the last three centuries.

**Sherlock**: All of which can be read about on my website.

**Mycroft:** Before he wanted to be a detective, Sherlock had aspirations of becoming a pirate. He was obsessed with the subject, particularly with Jean Lafitte, a famous French pirate. He read Treasure Island fifty times in a row when he was five. It led Sherlock to visit Europe in order to follow the places of his exploits.

**Sherlock**: And what's wrong with that? I thought you would be pleased that I was showing an interest in the outside world.

**Mycroft**: Yes, which would have been fine except that you were eight years old at the time and neglected to tell anyone or plan you were going to get home.

**Sherlock**: I knew that the police would bring me home when I was good and ready to come out of hiding.

**Mycroft:** As a young child, an interest in pirates and having an imagination for creating stories about them, made Sherlock popular with the other boys his age at school. In particular, the time when Sherlock taught them how to tie their teacher to her chair.

But, they became less enthusiastic over time because Sherlock wanted to play pirates every single day and nothing else. He was also very controlling in their play, telling them what to say and do.

J**ohn**: He hasn't changed much, has he?

**Mycroft**: Mother and I thought that he was doing well at school until his interest shifted to the more morbid aspect of the kind of weapons pirates used. We knew that something must be upsetting him, although he wouldn't talk to us about it.

**John:** Was he being bullied?

**Mycroft:** Yes. He couldn't tell us what us was wrong, so his interests became darker. What started out as an intense interest with the romantic adventure side of piracy, eventually led Sherlock to become interested in criminology, which of course has led him to his career.

**John: **7) Routine can be very important. Although, I wouldn't say that this one actually applies to Sherlock.

**Sherlock**: Actually, I like to have some control over my life. I never know when the next case is going to come along and not knowing is part of the problem. I need the challenge of a case to solve to keep my mind active, but at the same time I enjoy being able to pick and choose which cases I take on.

The world is a chaotic place and I do what I can to create order. And, yes, organising my sock drawer is something I find relaxing when I am angry and can't focus on a problem. Although, the way I order my socks is completely logical and only appears idiosyncratic to those who don't understand it the system and mindlessly mess it up!

**Molly:** I would like to butt in and talk about our friendship.

**Sherlock:** Don't try to be clever, Molly.

**Molly:** I know that sometimes, well, all of the time, actually, Sherlock can be incredibly mean to me and says some really terrible things. But, I know that we are friends.

Sherlock will never show any visible signs of affection. He won't ever ask how you are or give you a hug if he sees that you're upset. But, he will offer to do my work for me some days!

**Sherlock:** Exactly. I show my friendship through practical means. Sentimental words and actions are of no real need to anybody.

**Lestrade:** Don't I know it. The first time I tried to thank you for your help in a case, you snapped my head off.

**Sherlock: **Because I detest sentiment. I may have mentioned that. And because you once said, "I only put with him because I'm desperate." I know how embarrassing it must be for you to come crawling for my help. I am a psychopath, after all.

**Lestrade:** I'm not embarrassed of you, Sherlock. I'm proud. Me and every other officer down at Scotland Yard. Well, most of them. And mostly in secret. Some just hate you.

**Sherlock: **See? Pointless.

**Mrs Hudson:** Boys! The doorbell's ringing! I'm not going out with my face pack on.

**Sherlock:** Finally, a client! Hopefully you can put up a more interesting blog post next time, John.

**John:** My posts are always interesting! And I will write more if people have found this interesting. Thanks for reading.

_Author's Note_: _I'm sorry this has been a bit of a long one. I thought I could start with a sort of an introductory one. Anyway, thank you for reading. _


	2. Kidlock: At Nursery

_A/N: I felt like writing a Kidlock. I don't own the Sherlock characters._

Kidlock: Anger and Apologies 

Sherlock did not have many friends while he was at nursery school. But, he was a constant mixture of frustration and pride to the adults.

As a hyperlexic, he had been reading anything with print on it from the day his brother, Mycroft, had sat him down and taught him the letters and sounds of the alphabet. He had only been three years and had only needed to hear it once. After that there was no stopping him.

The picture books from the book corner, printed labels, fire evacuation procedures, small cut-up squares of newspapers from the cutting and sticking table - Sherlock read every single word which he came across within the nursery. He even read things which he was not supposed to read, such as the teacher's observation notes.

He did not understand every single word he read on Mrs. Wood's clipboard while she was intently observing Trevor at the water tray. But, that did not stop him from informing Trevor in an incredibly loud voice, "Mrs. Wood is writing about how you hold the tiny bucket handle in a pincer grip with your left hand, but then you keep switching to your right."

Trevor, always a comedian, gasped loudly.

"Oh, no! Not Mrs. Wood!" he cried, clapping a hand across his mouth. He had not understood half of what Sherlock had said, who always spoke and acted like a grown-up anyway, but he knew that he did not like the idea of his teacher watching him. So, he threw down the plastic bucket onto the surface of the water, sending cold water droplets flying into Sherlock's face and hair.

Sherlock yelped as the cold water hit him. He felt every single splash and each one was so cold that they felt like sharp needles made of ice which pricked his skin. He felt surprised too; he didn't realise that Trevor was going to do that to him, though Sherlock was already thinking that he should have foreseen this. Trevor was silly and boring, just like the rest of the children in the nursery.

The water was starting to run down his cheeks and neck. It was an awful feeling! A light, tickly feeling that made his skin buzz, his stomach squirm and sent his mind into panic mode - a feeling he couldn't control.

Sherlock crouched down on the ground, wrapping his arms around his head. He could not escape that cold, tickly feeling. He could not escape it or control it. It was overwhelming and frightening. What if it never ended? What if it got worse?

"It's okay, Sherlock," Mrs. Wood cooed. "Why don't we go and have a look at the dinosaur books?" She was kneeling beside him, but she knew better than to touch him which would only make him even more angry. Even comforting words would not work on him.

Trevor was in tears. He was not an unkind boy and he could hear Sherlock whimpering, as if he had just scraped his knee. He was also worried that Mrs. Wood was about to give him a huge telling off.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," Trevor sniffed.

But, Sherlock remained as he was, rocking slightly.

"Mrs. Wood, Sherlock isn't pardoning me," Trevor whined. He had picked up some unusual phrases from either his parents or the TV.

"It's okay, Trevor. Go and play somewhere else," Mrs. Wood told him.

But, by now the incident had attracted attention from the other children. They started to crowd around Mrs. Wood and Sherlock. Their teacher told them to go and play elsewhere, but one girl, full of sympathy, reached out while Mrs. Wood was distracted and patted Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock immediately uncurled himself and swiped angrily at Amy.

Amy rubbed her arm, gushing tears and wailing loudly.

"Sherlock smacked me!"

Sherlock leapt to his feet, shoving the girl out the way. He marched straight to the doll house and began to throw the toys around.

Mrs. Wood sighed heavily as she told the other children to go away.

The problem was that when Sherlock became angry, trying to calm him down only made him worse. And asking what the matter was would only infuriate him.

The best that the nursery staff could do was to try and distract the boy or allow him to burn off his anger in a less destructive way. A colleague appeared with an old cooking magazine left out for cutting and sticking. She shoved it into Sherlock's hands who immediately started to tear and rip the pages, while Mrs. Wood ushered the other children away.

Eventually, when Sherlock started to calm down Mrs. Wood sat with him and asked why he had hit Amy.

"Because she hit me first," he said, simply.

"She only patted you on the shoulder. Some children like to have a pat on the shoulder when they are sad because it makes them feel better. So, Amy saw that you were feeling sad and gave you a pat on the shoulder to make you feel better. It was a friendly thing to do," Mrs. Wood explained, patiently. "So, this afternoon you can make Amy feel better by saying sorry. Okay?"

"No, I don't want to," Sherlock said, sliding down in his seat.

"Well, you are going to because saying sorry is a friendly and smart thing to do."

Sherlock smiled slightly. Smart things were the only kind of things that were worth doing.

Just before home time Mrs. Wood took Sherlock over to Amy's group to apologise. The girl looked a little apprehensive to see Sherlock again, but he suddenly patted her shoulder and said, "Amy, I'm sorry I hit you. Please forgive me," and kissed her cheek.

Mrs. Wood tried not to laugh out loud, it was such a sweet thing to do. At least it was positive story she could pass onto the nanny when she came to collect Sherlock.

"Good boy!" she praised. "What a kind thing to do!"

Trevor from his place on the carpet, nodded approvingly.

"Sherlock's been pardoned," he said.

_A/N: Thank you for reading._


	3. Sherlock and Sally

Sherlock and Sally - Friend or Foe

"You were at a funeral yesterday," Sherlock stated. "That is a new jacket you are wearing and has odour of lilies clinging to it. If you liked the person you wouldn't be wearing it to the work the day after-"

"For someone who claims that everything is obvious, you love to point it out a lot," Sally grumbled.

They were in an office at Scotland Yard. Sherlock had wanted to look over the photos from the crime scene and Lestrade had ordered Donovan to supervise him. She was not happy.

"So what is it to you, then, Freak?" she asked.

"So you weren't at the crime scene yesterday."

"And? Did you miss me, Freak?"

Sherlock looked up from the photographs for a moment, looking thoughtful.

"Your absence bothered me," he said, eventually, before returning to the photos.

Sally stared at him for a moment. It was an unusual thing for him to say.

"Why would my absence bother you? I would have thought you would be glad not to have me around, constantly criticising you."

Sherlock was holding one photo up to the light, rotating it from corner to corner.

"Construction criticism and asking the right questions is always a useful push in the right direction. I know you do it because it is your job," he said. "Besides, your team does not look quite right when someone is missing."

Sally laughed. She couldn't believe what she was hearing: Sherlock was talking without the slightest hint of sarcasm.

"You really think that I want to help you? I call you Freak."

"Nicknames are a sign of affection."

Sally bit back a smile. She felt annoyed and amused at the same time. Could he not really tell that she didn't like him? She decided to be honest and clear; it didn't seem fair to let him carry believing that she was a friend to him.

"I call you Freak because you are one and because I don't like you. Didn't anyone call you names at school?"

"Yes, but you're a police officer, not a bully." Sherlock frowned at her. "Why would you want to upset me when I can help you with the investigation? It doesn't make sense to me to think that you would rather offend me than catch a serial killer. Fortunately, I don't hold grudges- anger is an useless emotion."

Sally was very glad when John came in carrying coffees.

"Everything alright?" he asked, looking at Sally's face.

"Yeah, fine," Sally answered, heading towards the door. She paused, "Oh, and by the way, Freak - I'm going on holiday next week so you won't see me around for a little while. I'm just letting you know so that you won't be bothered by my absence. And John?"

"Yes?"

"Will you please explain to him how to tell the difference between friends and enemies?"


	4. Mycroft is the Minister of Silly Walks

_A/N: The idea for this one-shot comes from The Complete Guide to Asperger's Syndrome by Tony Attwood: "…An interest in surreal humour such as the comedy style of Monty Python."_

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or Monty Python_

Mycroft Is The Minister Of Silly Walks

Sherlock Holmes was not an easy man to buy presents for. It was not just that he was adverse to all of the excitement and sentimentality that came with celebrating his own birthday and Christmas, but also because no one knew what to get him anyway.

But, John Watson knew that Sherlock had an idiosyncratic sense of humour that seemed to consist of making puns about chemistry, which only he understood. But, he also had a hunch that deep down Sherlock had also a love of the surreal. Which is why John brought him a Monty Python DVD for his birthday.

It was Sherlock's first time watching Monty Python and although he was dismissive at first, he was soon laughing hard. He had such an infectious laugh that John was in hysterics along with him.

It was always an experience watching TV with Sherlock, who always got so caught up in the programme that the flat could collapse around his ears and he would not notice. It was only one of the few situations in which Sherlock could stop thinking for a short while.

In the case of Monty Python, Sherlock would never see the punch-line coming, or the twists in logic, and it amused John to see him suddenly look surprised and then burst out laughing.

But, he kept asking for explanations half-way through the sketches, such as, "John, why are they doing that?"

Or, "Why is that happening?"

"I don't know," John replied, increasingly exasperated. But, at least Sherlock was enjoying it.

The Ministry of Silly Walks sketch was something else.

Sherlock laughed so hard that he wrapped his arms around his sides.

"It's…it's Mycroft!" he managed to say.

This made John laugh even harder too.

But, as soon as the sketch was finished Sherlock rewound the DVD back to the start and watched it over and over again, finding it just as funny each time.

In the end John became bored and read his book. It didn't matter, though. He knew that Sherlock was just as happy watching TV on his own as he was watching it with him. John was not sure that he could do that; watching comedies was always more fun with another person. But, Sherlock was not like that and John was just glad that he had found a present that made Sherlock laugh so hard. It was a rare sight.

But, then there was light tapping on the door and Mycroft walked in, swinging his umbrella.

"Hello. I just thought I'd drop in to -"

He did not get any further before Sherlock and John started laughing loudly.

It would be some time before Mycroft could walk into 221 B without at least one of the pair smirking or asking how the development of Silly Walks was going.

_A/N: Thanks for reading!_


	5. Clothing Malfunction

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock._

Clothing Malfunction

John looked at his watch for the hundredth time in just half an hour. It was 6.05 pm and Sherlock was late home from his first day working undercover in an office somewhere in the middle of London.

Sherlock Holmes working in an office - it would never sound right to John, even if it was so that he could gather evidence against the head of the company. John would not be surprised if Sherlock came home and reported that he had been fired in his first ten minutes.

Charles Augustus Milverton in the public eye was the CEO of a middle-sized paper distribution business. Not small enough for him to be poor, but also not big enough for him to be too noticeable or well known.

In actual fact, he was a master blackmailer, squeezing the heads of larger companies dry until they went bankrupt.

John winced at the sound of the front door opening and then slamming shut. It was quickly followed by the rhythm of running feet charging upstairs.

Sherlock burst into the flat and wasted no time in tearing off his jacket and tie, chucking them to the floor, as he made his way to his bedroom whilst unbuttoning his shirt, banging the door shut.

"Good day?" John called.

Sherlock reappeared a few minutes later wearing his pyjama bottoms, an old t-shirt and his blue dressing gown. His bare feet slapped against the wooden floorboards, as he collapsed with a sigh onto the sofa, wriggling his toes against the cushion.

"How did it go?" John asked.

Sherlock ignored him, his eyes shut.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock opened an eye. "It was awful. I thought I was going to die in those clothes. I don't how you bear wearing a tie every day."

He shut his eyes again.

"Yeah, but did you find out anything about Milverton?" John persisted.

Sherlock shook his head.

"It's too early for me to be snooping around too much and drawing attention myself. I tried to get up to his office but then a helpful co-worker found me and just assumed I was lost. Her name is Aggie," he hissed with some distaste, ruthlessly scratching at his chest. "She's in the cubicle opposite me and she likes to talk about nothing important. Just mindlessly prattles on."

"She sounds nice," said John, folding up his paper. "Anyway, are you hungry? I know that you don't like to eat during a case, but you're a proper working man now, and tomorrow you're going to have to do it all over again."

He saw Sherlock wince at the very thought, scratching his wrist now.

"I have to attend a meeting tomorrow," he said, staring up at the ceiling. "There's going to be _ten_ other people there as well. Aggie told me."

John stretched. "Yeah, and?"

"What do you mean, "and"?"

"I'm just wondering why you're mentioning it that's all. You don't normally tell me things just for the sake of it."

Sherlock stood up suddenly.

"I'm going to bed," he announced. He was running his knuckles up and down his arm, leaving red streaks.

"It's only quarter past six!"

"I'm tired," he retorted, stomping off to his bedroom.

The next day, Sherlock returned home around the same time. Again he quickly changed out of his hated work clothes and into his pyjamas. When John tried to ask if he had found any evidence against Milverton, Sherlock snapped at him, anxiously rubbing his arm again with his knuckles and then clicking his fingers.

On the third day, after Sherlock changed into more comfortable clothing, he fell onto the sofa and was fast asleep minutes later.

John shook his head. He hated to think that Sherlock was not coping very well with being undercover, and he hated even more to think that the case might be starting to go badly wrong.

Too many times over the past two nights he had seen Sherlock anxiously rubbing his arm with knuckles, before clicking his fingers a few times, then rubbing his hands together, and then repeating the cycle over and over again.

John had seen Sherlock clicking his fingers before when he was particularly excited about something and could not keep that excitement within himself. Once he had even seen the consulting detective actually jumping for joy during the Taxi Driver case. He also quite often rubbed his hands together, but then so did a lot of people.

John had heard of self-stimulation behaviours before, also known as stims for short. They were a good way of releasing emotions and could be anything from humming, to rocking or twirling, to tapping hands or feet. It really depended on the individual.

But, Sherlock's stims had seemed to have fallen into a complex pattern of behaviour over this case, and which had taken John all of his limited powers of observation to learn. John was a little worried at how they seemed to becoming something of ritual, but Sherlock could not be persuaded to say what was bothering him, or to distract himself with his violin or chemistry experiment, as he normally would. But, John knew that the stimming was helping in exerting some of Sherlock's anxious energy and so he did not try to stop him.

He heated up some left-over lasagne and when it was ready he tried to wake Sherlock up.

Lestrade suddenly bounded into the flat.

"Hey, guys, I was just wondering how you got on? Have you found out anything of use? Oh," he added, when he saw that Sherlock was asleep.

Lestrade knew all about Milverton, but for reasons which John could not quite understand, Scotland Yard were unable to do anything about it. Milverton was probably blackmailing a senior officer who had put a stop to any action being taken.

"Is he okay?" Lestrade asked John.

"Nope," John replied, with a shake of his head. He lowered his voice slightly. "He's not coping with being in an office and he hates the dress code. He's been there three days and he hasn't gotten anywhere."

Lestrade nodded. "Can you persuade him to give up and try something else?"

John almost laughed. "He's convinced that this is the best way and the fastest. Milverton has given our client a deadline. They'll go bankrupt in three days."

"If your client would just come to us, we could nail Milverton. Is there anything you can tell us, John?"

"Absolutely not," Sherlock said, sitting up. Lestrade jumped slightly. "I have rules about client confidentiality, Inspector, and I will not break them."

Lestrade ran a hand through his hair. "Right, well, that's a reverse then."

"What do you mean?"

"Normally, you solve cases by breaking a few minor laws along the way. And, now, from what I hear, you're about to fail a case by sticking to your rules."

Sherlock glared at him. "I only ever stick to my own rules."

"Yeah, that's true!"

"Boys," John murmured. "Arguing isn't going to help anyone."

"Sorry," Lestrade shrugged. "Look, I know you're a great actor, Sherlock. I've seen you fake tears before. But, being undercover is something different. You're in an environment you clearly don't like and I can't help you with that, but with the dress code - I might be able to give you some advice."

Sherlock snorted. "Clothes don't bother me. I'm fine."

It was Lestrade's turn to laugh. "Okay, but the thing is my wife, Lucy, is very fussy when it comes to her clothing. She hates baggy clothes. She can't stand having the fabric rustling around her or the feel of air against her skin. It makes it very hard for her to concentrate. And when I see a man who always wears a shirt that's a size too small for him and nice suits that he's obviously owned for years, I wonder how he will cope when he tries to wear nasty polyester trousers that look too big for him, in order to be in character when he goes undercover in an office."

"The polyester is too scratchy," Sherlock admitted. "Everything feels far too loose. It - it almost hurts. I can't think properly in them."

John felt sorry for his friend. He knew that Sherlock was taking a blow to his pride, admitting how uncomfortable his clothes were.

"No," Lestrade agreed. "And neither could my Lucy if she ever had to wear something like that. But, when she worked in an office, she always wore tights or leggings under her trousers, and a tight t-shirt under her blouse. She always said that she prefers a tight, even pressure against her skin, it makes her feel more at ease. I think you might be the same, right?"

"Yes. But, I'm not going to wear ladies tights, Lestrade."

"No, that's not what I meant," Lestrade smiled. "Haven't you got a pair of those running bottoms joggers wear? They always look embarrassingly tight."

Sherlock shook his head.

"Why not just wear your normal trousers underneath?" John said. "No, wait - you'd get too hot in that. Sorry."

Sherlock plucked at the edge of his dressing gown. He suddenly smiled.

"I'll wear my pyjamas underneath," he announced. "They're not as tight as I'd like them to be, but whilst under my work clothes it'll be okay. And it will stop the shirt and the polyester trousers from rubbing against my skin. I will give it a try."

"Good," Lestrade nodded. "I'll come back tomorrow, okay?"

The next day when Lestrade returned to Baker Street, he found Sherlock back in his own suit and dressing gown, happily playing his violin. On the coffee table there was a memory stick sitting on blue plate in the very centre.

"I think you will find the information on the memory stick very interesting, Inspector," said Sherlock. "There will be many people breathing a sigh of relief tomorrow when they see that Milverton has finally be arrested."

Lestrade held the memory stick in the palm of his hand.

"Blackmail is not my department, Sherlock. But, I will pass it onto Hopkins."

"Hmm." Sherlock stopped playing. "In that case, some information is missing off the stick. Such as the names of Milverton's victims, my client's name included."

"Sherlock -" Lestrade began.

"It's not your department and I stick to my own rules," Sherlock reminded him, shouldering his violin. "Would you tell your wife that I said thank you?"

"What for?"

"For the idea about the clothing. I was still surrounded by idiots in that office. But, not being quite so uncomfortable helped more than I imagined it would. I may conduct an experiment on how different clothing materials can affect cognitive abilities. Good afternoon, Inspector."

"Afternoon, Sherlock," Lestrade smiled, pocketing the memory stick. He would tell Lucy what Sherlock said, but he imagined that Lucy would simply retort that wearing underclothes was an obvious solution. One day Sherlock and Lucy would have to meet. It would be an interesting experience.

_Thanks for reading and reviewing, everyone!_

_And to Sam for suggesting clothing and stimming! I hope I did okay._


	6. Shut Down

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock_

Shut Down

From the Mind Bungalow of John Watson:

It is not easy being friends with Sherlock Holmes. He has what is known as Asperger's Syndrome, an autism spectrum disorder.

I tried asking Sherlock about it once, but he ignored me. He is a closed book most of the time. But, we are learning. Me about what Sherlock doesn't like and Sherlock about what a flatmate should and should not do.

Seeing him depressed and emotionally withdrawn is hardest for me.

Today, he successfully led Scotland Yard to the location of an abducted woman and to the kidnapper's arrest.

It was a lengthy case. The woman had been missing for three months before Sherlock finally found her. And now he is stuck on the sofa, curled up tightly with a cushion pulled over his head.

It was exactly the kind of case Sherlock usually tries to avoid. The frantic anxiety to find the missing person as quickly as possible, the interest from the media and, above all, the hysterical desperation of the family, all make for an emotionally charged case.

But, then the parents came to 221B and after Sherlock had initially turned them down, assuring them that the police were doing everything they could, the mother began to cry.

At first, Sherlock appeared to be at a complete loss as to what to do. But, then he reached across and placed his hand over hers. He had stared intensely at the corner of the ceiling, biting his lip, but it worked and the mother composed herself.

"I will do my best," he had said.

Most people assume that Sherlock has no emotions and is oblivious to the feelings of others. But that is not true. He may only be able to name four basic emotions (happy, sad, angry and worried) without stopping to wonder if sentiment, boredom and hatred counted as emotions, but in reality Sherlock is oversensitive to them.

He would hate me for saying that. But, the case was nothing like the usual, quiet composure of a murder investigation.

For the past three months Sherlock had been subjected to seeing Lestrade and his team under increasing pressure to make no mistakes whilst under the media spotlight. Not to mention questioning the teary eyed mother and anxious father. Sherlock seems to feel it all very intensely, without really understanding those emotions.

When the missing woman had been found and after a teary reunion with her family, the father came and shook Sherlock by the hand. The mother hugged him tightly and kissed him. Sherlock looked like he was about to pass out or vomit.

Then the journalists started throwing questions at Sherlock. They didn't even give him time to answer before asking the next question. I could see Sherlock freezing up next to me. He was either about to start shouting or about to run for it. There was no time to process what they were asking, no time to think, no time to reply.

Fortunately, Greg came to our rescue, stepping in and answering for Sherlock. As always he was full of praise for Sherlock. He's known Sherlock for longer than I have and has always known when Sherlock was about to snap.

When we finally got away and into a taxi I could see Sherlock gradually shutting down, becoming stiller.

As soon as we returned to the flat Sherlock collapsed onto the sofa, hiding behind the cushions.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

I know that Sherlock finds it an annoying question when the answer is so obvious, but I'll feel bad about myself if I don't show a little concern.

"I've overdosed on people," Sherlock mumbled, voice muffled by the cushion.

My heart sinks slightly when I hear this answer. Its code for: I've had more than I can take of other human beings. Don't look at me, don't touch me and absolutely don't talk to me.

They are simple instructions, basically asking me not to do anything, but I find myself struggling. I hate seeing him shut down like this, especially since I've suffered from depression myself. Sherlock is my best friend and all of my instincts make me want to go against the code. If he was anyone else I wouldn't hesitate to pat his shoulder and assure him that he will feel better soon, and to make a cup of tea. I would talk to him and ask how he was feeling.

But all of these things would only make Sherlock feel worse, even hurt him.

When I was depressed after coming out of the Army I was lonely. I didn't realise that I felt that way at the time, but I wish I had a mate around or anyone to talk to. There was Ella, my therapist, but I only talked to her because I had to.

Now I have plenty of friends around me all the time: Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, Stamford, Angelo from the restaurant, and even my sister Harry. I would even consider Mycroft to be an ally. He's pompous, but reliable. I rely on all of them. There are times when the depression and PTSD starts to rear its ugly head again, but I could go to any of them and they would make me feel ok again.

I have never felt as bad as I had when I first returned to London and before I met anyone.

But, Sherlock when depressed, is different. Kind words and attempts of distraction will only make him angry and even more upset. I need to socialise for the sake of my wellbeing, Sherlock needs solitude and time alone.

He more or less retreats into himself at the end of each case, not uttering a single word for days on end, and then suddenly emerge, completely refreshed.

But, if I find it hard to watch Sherlock simply shut down in front of me, then it is nothing in comparison to how difficult Mrs. Hudson finds it. She has had a strong maternal instinct for us both. Only last week I cut my finger on an envelop and moments later she appeared our doorway with her first aid kit because she had simply felt something was wrong. Sherlock was fascinated by this and wanted to conducted an experiment. I told him no.

As I make myself I cup of tea, I hear her coming up the stairs.

I come out to meet her and direct her gaze towards the sofa.

"Oh, dear," she murmurs when sees Sherlock tightly curled up, face still hidden under the cushions, the end of his coat hanging down and brushing the floor. She bites her lip. I know that all she wants to do is to hold him, probably rub his back a little bit and kiss his hair; gently encourage him to slip his coat and shoes off and put on his favourite dressing gown - anything to draw out him again, make him feel safe and warm inside.

None of those things is a good idea. As worn out as he is, any physical contact will probably cause him to really starting yelling and shouting. Not good.

Mrs. Hudson is privileged, though. On a good day Sherlock will hug and kiss her, two gestures of affection he sees as otherwise pointless, but he will do it for and only her. She is special to him.

To distract herself, Mrs. Hudson bustles into the kitchen and starts washing up. I log onto Sherlock's laptop and take a look at his emails. The inbox is almost overflowing with congratulatory messages for solving the case. It is the same on the message board on his website. There are even more on my blog.

I take a quick glance towards the sofa, but Sherlock is not there. He must have slipped away into his bedroom.

But, everyone is right - he should be feeling really good about himself right now. But, having shut himself away from the world he is no doubt listing and analysing and agonising over every little mistake he tells himself he's made. He is a perfectionist and will not easily forgive himself for any error he might have made no matter how small or insignificant it was.

I shut the laptop down and pick my book up to read instead. It's hard now, but Sherlock's mood will improve again and then we will back to week long chemistry experiments and three A.M violin concerts.

I just have to be patient.

_A/N: Thanks for reading!_


	7. Danger Night

_Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock_

Danger Nights

It was two in the morning and Sherlock could not sleep. He had tried, but it was hopeless. His body had been shaking too much and his thoughts racing.

Now he was pacing back and forth across the living room, running trembling hands through his hair.

He tried to evaluate his symptoms: elevated heart rate; shallow, fast breathing; shaking hands; churning sensation in his stomach; general restlessness; morbid thoughts. Conclusion: an anxiety attack.

The cause: life felt pointless.

It was a truth which Sherlock discovered time and time again in the prolonged periods between cases.

He went back to his laptop and checked his website again, just in case someone had emailed him since the last twenty minutes he had checked.

Of course, there was nothing.

Sherlock groaned in frustration. All this checking and rechecking of his email was becoming obsessive and would not stop until he got a case.

He went back to pacing the floor, feeling increasingly frantic.

He was a genius; he could think of another fifty ways to do away with himself using only what was within the flat, adding to the hundred methods that had already crossed his mind.

Sherlock shook his head, violently. No, he needed those thoughts to stop. They were merely intellectual tics, popping into his head in order to hurt him.

There were so many emotions which he could not put a name to or express in the same way other people expressed them. So, many emotions which were always ignored, forced down into the bottom of his stomach, packed down, and compressed, until either they went away on their own, or the pressure forced them to overwhelm him. Like lava forcing it's way up through the Earth's crust.

If he told John, John would frown. People frowned when they were angry, didn't they? Sherlock did not want John to be angry with him.

He was a genius; he had been only fourteen when he realised that everyone dies, so why bother doing anything at all? Why?

No, not a good option. Bit not good.

But, it was a truth Sherlock managed to forget about while he worked. Then life had purpose and meaning, and was exciting. And it would be over all too soon.

The deep depression would settle upon him soon.

Sherlock stopped pacing and curled up tightly on the sofa instead. The sofa usually gave him comfort. But not tonight. It felt cold and lumpy.

He was shaking, breathing loudly.

He could not take much more of this.

Why did he bother doing anything at all? Even solving cases?

It was a distraction, but that was all. It was just as meaningless as anything else.

Someone else may just cry at having such thoughts. But, not Sherlock. He never cried. He could not. Tears were pointless.

Sherlock started clicking his fingers instead.

Why was he so clever when life held no meaning?

Sherlock was well aware that it was his need to always think logically which pushed him into these anxiety attacks. So, not thinking was probably the best option, but that was easier said than done.

With a some reluctance Sherlock picked up his violin and started to play, whilst mentally drafting out an article he wanted to write about the various compositions of the periodic table.

John would complain about the noise in the morning. But, he had never come down during the night to tell him to stop. He was too kind.

Sherlock allowed the music to wash over him, playing songs which he knew John liked, dispersing the anxiety within his system.

He felt more relaxed within minutes. He thought of music as a luxury in life and in during these moments he could even think that being alive was worth these moments.

He remembered the words of Dorothy Parker: You might as well as live.

Logically, Dorothy is completely right, Sherlock thought. And while I live I'm going to solve bizarre crimes, play difficult music, conduct chemistry experiments and do what I can to annoy Mycroft.

Life is good.

_A/N: I wrote this one in the small hours of the morning. I couldn't sleep. But, I take comfort from the ranting in the book of Ecclesiastes ch9vs9:"…Enjoy all the useless days of this useless life God has given you here on earth…" Sound advice!_

_Thank you to everyone for reading and for reviewing!_


	8. Lucy and Greg

_I don't own Sherlock._

Lucy and Greg

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade was a happily married man and had been for the past twenty-two years. Well, technically he had been happy for the majority of those twenty-two years. His wife, Lucy, was somewhere on the autism spectrum and this made their marriage seem very unique to any other relationship he had witnessed. It was not without its ups and downs.

To put it simply he was still as much in love with her as he had been when he had first met her. Even if she had smacked him in the face on that first meeting.

They had both been shopping in the same supermarket and Greg had noticed just how beautiful she was. But there had been no reason for him to just walk up to her and start talking to her. But, then, oh lucky day, she had dropped her wallet and had been walking away from it.

He had quickly snatched it up and scuttled after her, calling out. She ignored him. He touched her arm to get her attention and she, interpreting that light tough as a threatening action, had screamed blue murder whilst whipping around and punching him on the nose.

It was love at first sight. For him at least, anyway.

While security dragged him out back to question him, Greg had furiously fumbled for his policeman's badge, whilst shouting to Lucy, trying to explain himself.

"I'm very sorry!" he yelled. "And by the way, I think you're very beautiful!"

He could not help but notice that Lucy was rocking from foot to foot, chewing her thumb. He suddenly felt very guilty about scaring her so much, even if had been a misunderstanding.

Fortunately, his side of the story was believed and Lucy was willing to say that she may have made a mistake, even if it had taken some time for her to calm down.

"But, it was your fault for being a clumsy idiot," she had insisted and would insist for the next twenty-two years and all of the years that came after.

It was some months before Greg saw her again. He later found out that Lucy would always go to the supermarket on the same day, at the same time. But, after the incident with the security staff he had been reluctant to show his face there again. He had no desire to be seen as a stalker.

But, then one day in early December, he had spotted her on her way to work.

It had been a miserable day for anyone to be outside. The snow had been falling pretty much constantly for the past two days, thick and heavy, with a strong wind. The roads were at a stand still as people battled their way into work. At least the snow was holding off for the moment.

Greg had been on his way to Scotland Yard. One curtsy glance out of the window had told him that his car would rather stay snuggled up under its blanket of snow than do battle on the roads. So, wellies it was then.

He had not recognised Lucy straight away. She had been in front of him on the street and looked like everyone else walking the snow: head bent, wrapped in a thick coat and hat.

He had been about to overtake her on the pavement, when she had slipped on a hidden patch of ice. He had instinctively caught her arm and then…thack!

She had punched his nose. Only this time his nose had began to bleed.

"I was trying to help!" he moaned, recognising her face.

"Then you shouldn't have touched me!" Lucy retorted. Then she started once again on her slow journey.

"Is that it?" Greg asked, skidding after her.

"Is that what?"

"We've met twice now and you've punched me on the nose twice. My name is Greg."

Lucy nodded and walked on.

"What's your name?" Greg asked, deciding he may as well be persistent.

"Lucy Giles," the woman answered. She was staring very intently at him. It made Greg feel slightly uneasy. But, in a few years time he would know another person with a very similar stare.

"You have nice hair and eyes," Lucy said. "I bet you smell nice too."

Greg thought about it for a moment. He could have disagreed with her, but seeing her pretty, symmetrical face with piercing blue eyes, made him want her to think very highly of his hair and eyes.

"Yes," he agreed. "Yes, I do. Lucy, would you like to go out with me for a drink sometime?"

"No," Lucy answered.

"Oh, okay."

"I'm not thirsty."

Greg thought about this for a moment.

"Well, if you and me could do something fun together, what would it be?"

"We could have sex. I enjoy that," said Lucy, bluntly. "I enjoy sex."

"Great," Greg choked. He knew that there were men out there who would gladly take advantage of the offer, but not him. There was a refreshing honesty about Lucy and he suspected that there something very different about her. Besides, he was a newly promoted officer out of uniform to the rank of Detective Constable - he had to be a gentleman.

"But, not sex, okay?" he said, getting over his shock. "Not on the first date with you, anyway."

Lucy frowned. "Why not? Isn't that the reason why men ask woman out? Because they want to have sex?"

"Ye-es," Greg said, reluctantly. "But, a kind man would want to know what a lady is like as a person before he has sex with her. What else do you enjoy doing?"

"I like reading comic books."

"Great!" Greg said, whilst thinking: what, really? "We could look at comic books. But, you know, I am a police officer and I think that when you start dating someone, it is always a good idea to bring a friend along on the first date. Maybe we could do that as well?"

"Why?"

Greg shrugged. Inside, his policeman's instincts were telling him that in Lucy's life there was probably an overly protective friend or mother who would want to check him out first, before allowing Lucy to date him properly. He might as well suggest the idea himself. Besides, Lucy struck him as being strong, independent and slightly innocent at the same time; he no desire to take advantage of her in any way.

"There are a lot of dangerous people around," he said. "Not me! But, it's always safer that way. Your friend could give you a second opinion about me, and my friend about you. Do you have a friend could you bring?"

Lucy shook her head.

"You don't have any friends? How about your mom?"

Lucy thought about it and then nodded.

"My mother would like to meet you."

"Good," said Greg.

"Will you bring your mother too?"

"Uh, if you'd like?"

Lucy frowned. "You just said that it was always safer to bring someone along on a first date."

"Fine, I'll bring my mother along on a…on a date…" Greg trailed off. Inside he was thinking: I've just agreed to bringing Mom along on a date!

It began to snow again, thick flakes falling in a fast flurry.

Lucy stared up at the sky, smiling with delight.

"I love watching the snow falling," she suddenly said. "That's why I'm not allowed to drive in this weather."

Greg felt grateful for that. Lucy almost seemed hypnotised by the snow. Eventually, he reminded her that they were both supposed to be going to work and were probably late already.

Lucy began to rock from the foot to foot.

"Why are you doing that?" asked Greg.

"Because I'm late! I'm never late!"

After some reassuring words from Greg, Lucy calmed down enough to give him her telephone number and then hurried on her way.

oooo

It was the most unusual first date he had ever been on, sitting in Lucy's living room trying to make conversation with her while she was completely absorbed in her comic book. She had quickly became irritable with him for always disturbing her.

At least their mothers got on well, chatting and drinking tea, in the corner. In the end it was Lucy's mother who suggested to Lucy that she and Greg could try playing twenty questions with one another.

That went well enough; they found out a little about each other. But, the best part of the evening was that Lucy agreed to another date, with blessings from both mothers.

They went on many, many dates after that, most of them spent in Lucy's home discussing comic books with each other. Gradually, they become more accustomed to one another, working out their time together into a regular routine.

But, it was a difficult relationship for them both to maintain.

Greg quickly found out that although Lucy's heightened senses meant that she enjoyed sex a lot, she was not easy to connect to emotionally. Sometimes it felt like she had became bored with him and would coldly dismiss him from her presence. But, it was her temper that really hurt him. He knew that she could not easily control her moods, but on the worse days she would literally throw things at him. It seemed to happen most when there was a change in her routine or there was something about the environment that she did not like.

It had really frightened him the first time he had witnessed Lucy suffering a full blown sensory overload. At that the time Greg had no idea what was wrong with his girlfriend. They had been shopping on the busy high street, trying to find something suitable for her mother's birthday, when Lucy had started to truly panic.

She had started to rock, hands clapped over her ears, moaning; Greg could see that she was in pain, but no idea what was wrong with her. He did his best to calm her and in the end picked her up and starting spinning her around in his arms.

Lucy liked to spin, he knew that and the motion surprised her enough to distract her for a few seconds. Passers by thought that they were just playing around.

After that Greg tried to be much more careful about where he took Lucy.

Greg was aware that his Lucy was very different from other women, although back then in the late 1980s no one suggested that Lucy could be on the autism spectrum. She was just thought to be eccentric and a bit bossy. Greg did not even suspect this to be case until he met an unusual man, who shared some of the similar behaviours that Lucy had.

Some of his mates asked him why on earth he chose to date such an awkward woman.

But, he loved how alive she was. She was kind, intelligent, energetic, funny, and honest. She was very artistic as well, always designing and painting patterns when not reading comics.

Lucy understood that Greg wanted more than a physical relationship and was not as in to comic books as she was. He also wanted to go out all of the time. But, some times it felt too much to talk and see her boyfriend nearly three times a week. If Greg had his way, they would see each other every day. Every day.

On the other hand, Greg was always calm, always able to help her relax. He was the sturdy, reliable sort. Maybe he was a bit of plodder academically, but he always kept his word and was always there for her.

Despite the initial difficulties, Greg and Lucy stuck together and eventually married in 1991, moving into their own home. Lucy qualified as an account and spent most of her time indoors, which suited her. Greg carried on building his career in the police. Lucy hated that he worked irregular hours, but she learnt to compromise on this. Greg learnt what would trigger her temper meltdowns and how to duck.

Some years later, Greg met Sherlock Holmes for the first time in 2005.

Sherlock Holmes, though clearly a genius, seemed to be strangely clumsy when it came to socialising. He would greatly improve in leaps and bounds after moving into Baker Street with John Watson, but for the first couple of years that Greg knew him, there was a certain stiffness in the way Sherlock interacted with people.

But, for all of the man's bluntness, Greg quite liked him. He reminded him a little of Lucy, especially on the day he found the detecting lying on a park bench, watching the snow falling.

Greg did not suspect that Sherlock was autistic straight away. But then he went on a training course in 2007 and after that he began to notice small things about Sherlock that made him wonder if he was, not that he was trying label the detective.

After thinking about Sherlock, he suddenly realised - why not Lucy?

He pulled out his notes from the course. It seemed to fit. Until recently it had been thought that there were very few women on the autism spectrum compared to men, but now it seemed that the numbers were almost even. There were various reasons given for this change in attitude: women being more able to adapt their behaviour to appear "normal" and act, as it were, in social interactions, seemed to be among the reasons.

Greg drummed his fingers on the desk. Would it be worth telling Lucy about?

He knew that there were positives and negatives to being tested, especially when it seemed that Lucy would be tested just for being Lucy. It did not seem right somehow.

On the other hand, their marriage still had rough patches and if he was honest Greg still felt as though he did not understand everything about Lucy.

Lucy was a little apprehensive at first, but after some gentle persuasion from her mother, Lucy was diagnosed as being on the autism spectrum at the age of forty. It did not change her, but it helped Greg to understand her a little better and Lucy to understand herself, even if they had been married already for sixteen years already.

_A/N: I wanted to write about a female on the autism spectrum, so I hope that this okay. I am planning another one where Sherlock and John meet her, while Greg is laid up with flu, and Sherlock and Lucy argue about manga. I just wanted to give her an intro chapter._

_I based Lucy on a character from a Swedish-Danish crime drama, The Bridge (or Bron/Broen). Saga Noren, a homicide detective, shows signs of Asperger's, although it is never directly mentioned in the show. It created a bit of a stir here in the UK. After it was first broadcasted, I read a newspaper article about it which reported that many women had seen the programme and recognised some of her behaviours in themselves. It's worth watching just for Saga. Sherlock and Saga would make a good pair._

_Thank you for reading, reviewing and following!_


	9. John's Girlfriends

_I don't own Sherlock._

John's Girlfriends

I really want to be able to keep a girlfriend. But it is not easy when you have a flatmate like Sherlock. He offends them with his bluntness or they think that I am his carer of sorts. Or worse, his boyfriend.

He is no good at small talk, so even when he tries to be kind to them as a favour to me, they usually end thinking that he is strange. If they ask him about the science equipment on the table he will tell them about every singe piece of apparatus that he owns, what it does and how often he uses it. His voice will slide into a monotone. Some of the ladies I've dated have tried to ignore him by talking to me over the top of him, others will tell him to shut up and others will be determined to listen to him until he has finished. That is true persistence and no one has managed it yet. Not even me.

Once, I had my eye on a member of Anderson's forensic team. But, I wasn't too hopeful because I knew that this woman probably thought that Sherlock and I are a couple. So, I made the mistake of asking Sherlock to say something to her.

And he did, whilst examining the body of a murder victim.

"I want to reassure you that John and I are not a couple," he said, very loudly and right in front of Lestrade and Donovan. "And I promise you that we have never had sex together. We haven't even openly considered the idea."

Of course, that only made things worse. She believed the rumours even more after that.

But the worst is when they think that Sherlock is flirting with them. For a short while I dated a violin teacher and I was optimistic that at least she and Sherlock would have something they could both understand to talk about. So, after going out for a couple weeks and hearing all about Sherlock, she wanted to meet him. While I was in the kitchen she asked him how much he knew about music.

The problem is that when Sherlock talks about one of his passions he becomes very intense. He will stare at you straight in the eyes, talking in his deep voice and forgets all the rules about personal boundaries.

That's how I found them when I came back through with the tea. I could hear Sherlock lecturing of her, of course, but it is another thing to see Sherlock kneeling on the sofa, staring intently at her. She was bright red and looked slightly scared. She jumped up when she saw me.

"John!" she squealed. "I'm sorry but he was - he was coming onto to me."

I couldn't help but sigh. I knew that such rules don't come naturally to him, but I wish he would think about how he looks sometimes.

"No, it's fine," I said. "Don't worry."

"Don't worry? He was flirting with me!"

"No, I wasn't. I was talking about music," Sherlock replied, all innocence.

"Is this what you were planning, John?" she asks. "You want to share me out between the two of you?"

She snatches up her coat and handbag and runs out of the door.

"No, wait! He really wasn't…." I trailed off, knowing it was pointless.

I fall back onto the sofa.

"Why did she go?" Sherlock asks.

"You were flirting with her," I say, trying my best not to sound angry. It wasn't his fault and for once he was doing his best to make her feel welcome.

"No, I wasn't, I was -"

"I know what you thought you were doing, but the way you were doing it was flirty!" I shout. "You are very good at flirting, even though you have no idea that you're doing it!" I had lost my patience at this point. Surely the man must have had some idea of what it looked like.

Sherlock either didn't pick up on my anger, or he didn't care. Instead, he looked curious.

"Interesting," he said, tilting his head to one side. "So, if I want to flirt with someone I should just do that?"

"What? No!" I say, shaking my head. I was feeling a bit distracted.

"You just said that I was very good."

"Tell yourself that I was lying!"

"Why?"

I shake my head again. It's like he's not even aware that my girlfriend has walked out because of him. Of course, he wouldn't care.

"It is not appropriate for you to be sitting or standing or just being so close to someone you barely know, especially if that person is already in a relationship with your flatmate!" I said, resting my head on the back of the sofa. "And don't stare at them so hard! For goodness sake, has no one taught you these things?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Yes, but I thought that she wanted to hear about music. Did you like her all that much?"

I think about it, chewing my lip.

"Not much," I admit.

"Good," Sherlock said, almost sounding happy. He picked up his violin and began to play. "She was too melodramatic for you."

I think the woman I end up truly loving and marrying will be someone who understands and likes Sherlock, as much as she loves me. I'll be very lucky.

_Thanks for reading!_


	10. The Problem With Snow

_I don't own Sherlock._

The Problem With Snow

On Tuesday morning Lucy woke up early to find that her husband, Greg, had a soaring temperature. She went to the phone and made an apology to his superiors at the Yard on his behalf, because there was no way that she was going to allow him out of bed that day.

Around lunchtime she prepared Greg some soup and was pleased to find him looking a little brighter. Not only that, but there was also someone he wanted to see.

ooooo

Sherlock was in an irritable mood. He sat in the back of the taxi cab next to John, hiding his eyes behind his hand.

"Lestrade's an idiot," he said, for the hundredth time. "He could have just spoken to me over the phone. Or texted. Or even emailed."

John shrugged. "He's just enjoying being a touch dramatic, like somebody else I know."

Sherlock grunted, rubbing his forehead.

It was not just thought of somebody knowing something about a cold case which he did not know, which was annoying Sherlock. But, he had absolutely no desire to see Lestrade's home, which he had never visited before, or meet Lestrade's wife, whom he had never even bothered to imagine about, wondering what sort of woman it would take to put up with Greg; and the snow was giving him a headache.

Yesterday, the skies had been grey and it had snowed all day. Sherlock did not mind it then. He quite enjoyed watching falling snow. But, today the skies were clear, the sun bright and the snow so dazzling that it made him feel uncomfortably disorientated.

If Lestrade was allowed to stay indoors all day, then why was not he?

"This visit is a minus 7," he hissed. "Because it is so absolutely pointless."

"Cheer up," said John. "We won't be there long. It'll be fine. It will be just be a normal house - big T.V so that Greg can watch the football, wedding photo on the wall, beer in the fridge, slight smell of a secret cigarette, uh, house plant…"

He trailed off, having reached the limits of his imagination, but he was glad to see Sherlock's body language relax slightly.

He knew that Sherlock hated to be forced into any situation in which he felt he was being placed at a disadvantage, however slight that disadvantage may be.

Perhaps all Sherlock wanted was a mental image of where he was going. It did not surprise John to think that Sherlock had no idea what a normal home would look like.

It reminded John a little of how he used to believe that his teacher lived in the school and how shocked he was when whilst out shopping with his mother, they had bumped into that teacher with her husband. His mind had been blown by the revelation that his teacher had a life outside of school.

Maybe Sherlock was just agitated about seeing Lestrade in his home, after years of only seeing the man at either his office at Scotland Yard, or on a crime scene.

Oooo

Lucy opened the door for them and ushered them inside.

John was relieved that he had been right in most respects about the small semi-detached home. He could see Sherlock eyes' roaming over the living room taking in every little detail and aspect: the large TV, the two wedding photos on the wall, the house plants…

But, there was something that John had missed.

"Someone's a comic book fan," John smiled. All around the bookshelves in the living room were row upon row of volumes of manga series.

"Manga, not comic books, John," Sherlock corrected. "Look at the sizes; they're too small to be comic books."

"I'm the fan," Lucy said. "Greg thinks they're boring. Do you like manga, Sherlock?"

"No. Greg's right. They are boring."

John raised an eyebrow. "Don't be rude. Besides, have you ever tried?"

"Yes. I was force to read comic strips at school. They were supposed to teach me the rules of socialising and interacting with people."

"They didn't help much," John muttered.

"Those are not the same thing!" Lucy retorted. "I own 321 volumes of magna: 78 volumes of Case Closed, 59 volumes of Naruto, 29 volumes of Skip Beat!, 27 volumes of Fullmetal Alchemist, 23 volumes of Fruits Basket, 20 volumes of Death Note, 15 volumes of D. , 14 volumes of Sailor Moon, 13 volumes of Black Butler, 10 volumes of Yu-Gi-Oh, 9 volumes of Full Metal Panic! 7 volumes of Full Metal Panic! Comic Mission, 7 volumes of Alice 19th, 5 volumes of Full Metal Panic! Overload, 3 volumes of Ghost In The Shell, 1 volume of With The Light: Raising An Autistic Child and Town of Evening Calm, Country of Cherry Blossoms."

"Wow," John murmured.

Lucy went into the kitchen. "Do you guys want to drink tea or coffee?"

"Tea, thanks," John said, sitting down on the sofa. He noticed that Sherlock was not saying anything, just staring at the wedding photos. "Sherlock?" he prompted.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, thanks."

Lucy stuck her head around the door. "But, Greg said that coffee is all you drink!"

"You shop at Sainsbury's. We get ours from Tesco."

Lucy pulled a face. "Ugh!"

"Can I go and see Lestrade now?"

Lucy thought about it for a moment and then, "Yes."

After the sound of Sherlock's footsteps charging up the stairs had faded away, Lucy set down a mug of tea in front of John and sat next to him on the sofa. They both sat in awkward silence, trying to think of something to say.

"I am a doctor," John ventured.

"Yes. I know."

"I could take a look at Greg if you -"

"It's just the flu."

"Right. Okay," John flopped back against the sofa. "So, how much do you know about manga?"

Mrs. Lestrade brightened considerably and started to tell John all about it.

Oooo

Sherlock burst into the master bedroom.

"Just tell me what you have to say and then I can leave," he said. "Your house is poorly decorated, you shop at a different supermarket to John and I could smell damp as I passed your bathroom."

"Its good to see you too," the Detective Inspector smiled wanly, pushing himself up on one elbow. "I'm fine, thank you."

Sherlock frowned. "That's not what I asked."

"No. Have you ever heard of the Laura Henley case? It was one of my earlier ones. You would have been just a kid yourself."

"That all depends on if it was an interesting crime or not."

"Seemingly not. Laura Henley, a police officer, goes out into the woods one snowy day and is shot in the forehead. There were only one set of footsteps in the snow - hers. The gun was in her hand and registered to her."

"So, it was classed as suicide?"

"Yes."

"And you thought it was suicide at the time?"

"At the time, yes," said Lestrade, scratching his throat. "I remember that she always a bit grouchy. I suppose she could have been depressed. But, I've never forgotten her. There was something odd about the whole thing."

"And what was the cause of your doubt?"

"She hadn't taken her wedding ring off," Lestrade said, staring at his own ring. "It's supposed to be a common trait with female suicides - the last thing that they do is take their wedding rings off. I've always wondered about that, but my superiors did not think much of it."

"So, what's changed?" Sherlock asked. "You have one day off and now you're reopening a twenty-year old suicide case."

Greg shifted uncomfortably, obviously worried about embarrassing himself in front of Sherlock.

"Well, this morning I woke up and I felt all cold and shivery like I was -"

"Lying on your back in the snow, just like the police officer was found. She didn't have a fever - the autopsy would have revealed any natural illness or administered poison."

"Yes. Anyway, Lucy came to check up on me and as she was leaning over me -"

"You were looking up at her and she was looking down on you," Sherlock filled in. Greg was pleased to hear a note of excitement in the detective's voice as his mind raced ahead of the narrative. "You said that the police officer was found in a wood. A dense wood, was it?"

"Yeah, it was -"

"The killer could have climbed from tree to tree."

Sherlock was moving restlessly around the room as his imagination took flight. Greg could see Sherlock's eyes moving rapidly as if he was experiencing REM sleep, but really it was his thoughts moving more quickly than he could talk. He spoke in short sentences.

"But, how did he get the victim onto her back? If he shot her from an overhanging branch, the entry wound would be at a different angle. Somehow he was able to press the gun to her forehead and fire, without touching the ground. But, it was her gun…Thank you, Lestrade, for bringing this case to my attention. I will look into it for you." He dashed out through the door, shouting, "Get Donovan to send me the case file!"

Greg lent back into his pillow, tired but happy. He had done the right thing by telling Sherlock about his sudden burst of inspiration, about a shut case he had always had nagging doubts about.

Sherlock suddenly reappeared in the doorway.

"You should be sick more often. It's obviously good for you," he said, before disappearing again, slamming the door behind him.

Greg winced at the sound of the slamming door and the subsequent drum roll of feet running down the stairs, but he still felt happy.

Sherlock dashed downstairs, vaulting over the side of the banister to avoid wasting time on the last five steps.

"Don't do that!" John scolded.

"It's fine," Lucy shrugged. "I do it all the time."

Sherlock threw John his coat. "Come on! We've got a new-old case to solve!" He turned to Lucy. "Goodbye, Mrs. Lestrade. Thank you for not making me drink your coffee."

She smiled. "You are welcome." She plucked a volume of Case Closed off the shelf and pressed into Sherlock's hand. "It's a present for being Greg's friend. He doesn't have any others. Or they've just never bothered to visit."

"Thank you," said Sherlock, sliding the manga into his coat pocket. John noticed that his face had turned slightly pink, but then he recovered himself and ran out through the front door. "Let's go, John," he snapped, impatiently.

Three days later, John discovered a second volume of Case Closed in their flat. It seemed as though Lucy Lestrade now had a manga buddy to share with.

_Thank you for your support, everyone!_


	11. Food

_I don't own Sherlock_

Food

John was an extremely patient man, even when there was so much that he could upbraid his flatmate over: the mess, the chemistry experiments, the violin practice in the early hours of the morning - John took it all in his stride.

But, it was Sherlock's eating habits, or lack of, which caused John to loose his temper.

It worried John that Sherlock ate so little. The detective barely ate in between cases, but whilst on them, he refused to eat proper meals at all, save for the occasional biscuit or mouthful of toast, just to stop John from nagging so much. But, he would do so with a look of absolute disgust for both the food and for John. John would do his best to try ignore the look, excusing Sherlock because the man obviously had a real issue with eating properly, but he could not help but think that if he ever walked away from Sherlock it would be over his flat refusal to improve his diet. He stubbornly denied that he had any problem at all.

Sherlock had just solved a week long case for Lestrade and it was while they had just reached Baker Street, that Sherlock suddenly turned white, staggering into the wall. John had caught his arm and found that Sherlock was shaking all over.

"Don't touch me!" Sherlock snapped, pulling back his arm. His voice sounded shaky.

"Sorry, sorry," John muttered, immediately backing off. He fumbled for his house keys. "Let's just get inside, okay?"

He allowed Sherlock to go in first so that he could follow him up the stairs, just in case if Sherlock lost his balance again and went tumbling backwards.

As soon as they reached their living room Sherlock collapsed onto the sofa, tugging off his coat and scarf. He felt a little disconcerted by the fact that the room was spinning slowly.

John was at his side in an instant.

"Can I feel your forehead?" he asked.

"Yes," Sherlock mumbled. He had a feeling John would have done it anyway, but he was too considerate not to give Sherlock a warning. Sherlock felt repelled by the smallest of physical contact and there was nothing ruder in his eyes than someone tapping him on the shoulder to get his attention or grabbing his hand to shake it without permission.

He shifted uncomfortably under the presence of John's hand on his forehead. His senses never liked to gently tell him anything. It was as though he were constantly surrounded by hyperactive people with loudspeakers, one for each sense, who would scream information at him at maximum volume.

Fortunately, John's hand was there for only a moment.

"You're very clammy," he said, removing his hand. "Look, just tell me the truth - when was the last time that you ate a proper meal? Why won't you eat properly? A man as clever as you…it's not exactly logical, is it? Starving yourself like this?"

John spoke quickly with increasing volume and frustration in his voice.

It threw Sherlock to hear John becoming angry with him. It was something which rarely happened.

He closed his eyes, trying to shut John out, trying to think.

John had asked him to tell the truth. Fine, he would do that as soon as he had decided what counted as a proper meal. He had half a slice of toast yesterday. Was that a proper meal in John's eyes? It was a proper meal to him, but if he said that and John did not class that as a real meal then Sherlock would have answered dishonestly and John would be even more annoyed with him.

Also, John had asked him not one question but four in rapid succession. Did he expect Sherlock to answer truthfully for all of them, or just the first one? The last two questions were related, they could be counted as one question. They sounded rhetorical, but maybe John still wanted a truthful answer? Which question was he supposed answer first? Question number one or number three/four? Unless, question three/four really did not require an answer and -

"Sherlock, answer me!" John demanded.

Sherlock groaned, his head was hurting. What on earth did John want to say? He clapped his hands over his ears, rolling onto his side with his back to John.

"Sherlock -"

"Go away! Go away! Go away!" Sherlock shouted.

John was stunned, but he quickly backed away from the sofa. Sherlock's outburst seemed to have come out of nowhere. John shook his head and stomped off to his room.

Once there he paced the floor, breathing deeply. He might as well as calm down.

He felt slightly guilty. If Sherlock had wanted to be rude in order to upset him, he would have done so in a much more calm and controlled way. Screaming "Go away!" was hardly eloquent, it was defensive.

He should have taken more notice of the signals - Sherlock was tired, having not eaten or slept properly for the past week; Sherlock had closed his eyes as soon as he had asked too many questions at once, his chest rising and falling more quickly; and even when Sherlock had held his hands over his ears John had still demanded an answer.

An answer to what? What had he expected Sherlock to say? That he had a secret eating disorder that he was ashamed of? To admit that John was right and that he should eat more properly?

John flopped back onto his bed. It had been petty and stupid of him to push his friend like that. He was feeling tired too and worried about Sherlock, but that was no real excuse.

John pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.

He was becoming arrogant. He knew that he was good with people, knew how to make feel more calm and relaxed. He had been a solider, who had survived some terrible experiences, so he should be able to fix any patient, right?

Wrong. He had just assumed that he could make Sherlock Holmes eat properly with a few firm words and it had backfired in his face. He would be lucky if Sherlock ever trusted him again.

He would have to apologise to Sherlock. But not now. It would only make things worse.

He got changed and went to bed.

Ooooo

The next day John woke up to the sound of Sherlock's violin floating up through the floorboards. It was a happy tune, which was a good sign, but John still felt a little nervous about the mood he would find Sherlock in.

Still, he owed Sherlock an apology and that was exactly what he was going to do.

He went downstairs and was surprised to find Sherlock sitting on the back of his armchair, chomping his way through an apple whilst reading the newspaper spread out across his knees.

"Morning," John said, a little tentatively.

"Good morning," Sherlock said, brightly. "There's tea in the pot, coffee in the jug and left over lasagne and salad in the fridge."

"Lasagne?" John echoed. "We don't have any -"

"I made it last night. I was hungry. I almost fainted outside the front door last night, if you remember. I came upstairs to see if you wanted any, but you were already asleep."

John shook his head in amazement. Sherlock never cooked and John just assumed that he was incapable of it. It made John feel even more guilty, he had taken it for granted that Sherlock needed John to take care of him. He did not; John had forgotten that Sherlock had lived on his own for years before moving to Baker Street. He may not take as much notice of his health as John would like, but he still looked after himself.

"Are you feeling any better?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded, turning over a page.

"Yes, I've almost paid off my hunger debt. Are you feeling better?" he suddenly looked up.

"Me?" John was surprised.

"You went to bed early last night. You still look pale."

John shrugged. "Listen, about last night…I'm sorry, okay?"

"Okay," Sherlock nodded and went back to his newspaper.

John sighed with relief and poured himself out a cup of tea.

"What for?" Sherlock asked, frowning.

"For the way I treated you. It wasn't kind."

"You helped me inside and you checked my temperature. What was unkind?"

"I think I upset you. You yelled at me to go away."

"Because you were being annoying," Sherlock replied simply. "But, then most people are annoying."

"Right," John sighed, putting away the milk.

"You wanted to know why I don't eat properly," Sherlock said, hopping down from the chair. "I've had time to think about it and have come up with an answer."

"You don't have to tell me."

"I don't have an appetite, John, at all. I never feel hungry." He deftly threw his apple core into the bin. "I'm aware that my stomach begins to cramp after a substantial amount of time without food, but I rarely interpret it as hunger. The cramping could be a result of stress, or it could be illness, but I seldom think that it's because I need to eat. Not until I notice other symptoms, such as having a low blood sugar level and feeling faint. Eating is just another chore to me and I don't particularly enjoy the experience."

"You're incredible," John muttered.

"But, I worry about you, John," Sherlock said, frowning. "I don't think you're finding it very easy being a Neurotypical in an Aspie household. You worry too much over things that are unimportant, like our spat last night. It lasted only a second, but you've spent the whole night fretting about it. It's not important."

John smiled, feeling relieved all other again. "So, you think that this is an Aspie household? What about Mrs. Hudson? She's a N.T like me. You're the one who's outnumbered by us."

Sherlock smirked. "Exactly. Me versus you and Mrs. Hudson. I outweigh you both."

John thought about it for moment and then decided that Sherlock was right. "Fine," he relented. "This is an Aspie household."

"Exactly," Sherlock said, take a bite out of another apple, hunger debt duly paid off.

_Thank you for reading and for all of your support!_


	12. Stress and Stomach Cramps

_I don't own Sherlock._

Stress and Stomach Cramps

A combination of a seemingly never-ending heat wave, road works on Baker Street for the foreseeable future and a lack of cases for an indeterminate amount of time, had driven Sherlock into the mortuary at St Barts everyday that week in order to escape the deadly mixture of heat, noise and boredom. Matters were not improved by John being away on a week long conference in Berlin. Baker Street was not the same without him and his absence felt jarring to Sherlock.

Seeking refuge in the morgue had allowed him to avoid the heat and boredom of the outside world, but, sadly not the noise. Not that day, anyway.

Molly was telling one of her students off in her office. It was turning into a sickening little episode. Sherlock could her raised voice from where he sat in the mortuary's lab, lecturing the unfortunate boy about inappropriate behaviour.

Whatever his trespass was (and Sherlock suspected it had been a practical joke gone wrong) Molly was certainly ripping into him for it. He had never heard her shout before and was surprised to hear how good she was at it.

"I have never been so embarrassed or ashamed of one of my students!" Molly bawled.

Sherlock winced as his stomach muscles suddenly clenched together painfully. He wished Molly would keep her voice down a little. It was becoming hard to focus on his experiment.

That was something else he was trying to avoid. His stomach pain was becoming increasingly worse as the week went on. Working on his experiments provided a welcoming distraction, but the effects were starting to wear off as the pain intensified.

"Your work is slapdash at best and your attitude is terrible!"

Sherlock flinched again, his stomach cramping in time with Molly's voice. He could remember being reprimanded in such a fashion with those exact words himself by his chemistry professor at university. But, he had been on something of a downhill slope back then and had deserved it.

A quick glance at the office window allowed Sherlock to see which unfortunate student had pushed Molly Hooper too far. He smirked when he saw the messy hair belonging to Andrew…something. He had never liked that boy. Suddenly, Sherlock approving whole-heartedly of the scolding he was receiving, stomach cramps and all.

Sherlock suddenly realised that from the way Molly was yelling the practical joke had probably been aimed at him. He also realised that he did not want to know what it was. Four days and three sleepless nights with a painful stomach had made him more irritable than usual, so it came as no big revelation that one of the students wanted revenge. But, he was a little surprised that Molly was willing to stand up for him - he had snapped at her more than once this week - and maybe just a little bit grateful that she still allowed him into mortuary despite his grouchiness.

Sherlock was generally popular with most of the medical students he came across at St Barts, especially the female students. Most of them saw him as a harmless loner, an oddball eccentric whom the hospital staff tolerated and allowed him to use the facilities because it would be too much effort to bar him.

But, occasionally there would be a student of the Donovan-Anderson variety who would despise him for reasons he could not even being to comprehend. Andrew was one of them.

But, Andrew's loathing did not extend just to Sherlock, he seemed to despise everyone. Molly had tried to tolerate him because his tutor had already warned her that Andrew was brilliant, but highly strung - another Sherlock then, Molly had thought - and his parents had always been generous towards the university and to St Barts.

However, it had been a mistake thinking that Andrew and Sherlock were the same. Sherlock was nothing like Andrew. Andrew was far more cruel.

He had told Rosie that he had overhead Molly saying that she was about to throw her off the course. Rosie had cried. Andrew had insisted that it had just been a joke.

Molly and the tutor were able to sort things out that time. But, now Andrew had turned his attention to the consulting detective who so often sat in the lab working by himself.

First thing that morning Molly had found Rosie hovering outside of her office. The girl was clutching a piece of paper which she said belonged to Andrew. On it was a crude caricature of Sherlock, naked and crawling through mud and worse things, searching for clues. He was held back by a leash, grasped in the hand of a policeman.

_Sherlock Hound - dog of Scotland Yard_, was scrawled across it.

Molly stared at it, open-mouthed. It was so horrible! It was hateful and disgusting and so unkind.

Molly felt dirty just for the holding it. She had the desire to shred into a hundred pieces and drop it straight into the bin, but she needed to keep it to confront Andrew with and to show his tutor.

She called Andrew in and showed him the picture. He was remorseless. That was when she really lost her temper with him. She had never shouted at a student before and never had such a good reason. She was aware that Sherlock was in the lab and could hear her, but she carried on regardless. She just hoped that today he would not bother to do any deducing and find out about the picture.

Out of breath, she dismissed Andrew and ordered him to go home.

Molly slumped back in her chair, rubbing her neck. She was having a rough day.

She liked to think that she was good with the students, but Andrew had gone too far and now she had booked a meeting with his tutor tomorrow to discuss whether he should be allowed to stay on the course. Molly was against it.

She drummed her fingers on her desk, eyeing the paperwork which needed completing. The whole business with Andrew had left her feeling unsettled and she had no desire to tackle the mountain of paper on her own. She really wanted to spend some time with Sherlock, so she scooped up the lever-arch folders and wandered out into the lab, and dropped her things onto the work station opposite Sherlock.

He was so engrossed in his experiment that he did not even acknowledge her presence, but Molly was happy with that. At least he was comfortable with her being there.

For over an hour they worked in silence, each absorbed in their own projects.

At one point Molly asked, "How do you spell equivocation, Sherlock?"

He duly spelt it out for her and they lapsed back into silence. Molly felt surprisingly content. This was as close as they were going to get - happy to share the same table, but doing completely different things. She would have to make do with that.

Sherlock winced, rubbing his stomach.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" Molly asked, looking up from her paperwork.

"Fine," he grunted, settling back down on his seat.

Molly hesitated, reluctant to press the issue any further. It was not the first time this week that she had caught him grimacing with pain and rubbing his stomach. He looked terrible for someone who had no work to do. That was probably part of the problem. Earlier in the week he had also been complaining about contestant drilling that was going on in Baker Street.

She chewed the end of her pen thoughtfully.

"It could be stress causing your stomach pain," she suggested. "A lot of people with autism have some sort of gastrointestinal problem."

Sherlock ignored her, using a pipette to drop some coloured liquid into a clear solution. She was right and he knew it. Only John had seen him suffering with his stomach at its worse and had felt incredibly embarrassed in admitting the problem to him. John had been sympathetic and tried to be helpful, but the embarrassment only made Sherlock feel even worse. Now Molly knew.

"How-how about a hand massage?"

It was enough to shake Sherlock from his reverie.

"What?" he asked.

Molly felt her face flush bright red. She bent over her folder, scribbling down notes.

Sherlock contemplated her hunched figure for a moment before going back to his work. He could not honestly say that he understood what Molly had just suggested. His brain seemed to have locked up.

"You..you want to give me a hand massage?" he asked for clarification.

Molly straightened up and cleared her throat.

"I did some training as a massage therapist before I decided that it wasn't what I really wanted to do. So, I switched from living bodies to dead ones," she said with a short laugh. "But, I did have a client with autism and he said I was really good. It helped him feel less anxious."

"I don't want you touching me," Sherlock said, brusquely. "It's a stupid idea."

"I knew you'd say no," Molly said, softly.

"Then why ask in the first place?"

"I was hoping that you would surprise me."

"Why?"

Molly sat up straighter, trying to put on a determined look. "It could help relieve your sensitivity to light touch, if we took it slow and gradual. As well being relaxing. Think of it as an experiment."

Inside, Molly felt shaky - she was being bold today! But, Adam's cartoon had really hurt her on Sherlock's behalf, and she wanted more than anything to do something kind for him, even if he would need a little persuading. But, she was confident that it would help over time.

Sherlock was silent for a long moment and Molly thought that he had gone back to ignoring her. She seemed to really want to do it and he knew that his irritability over the past few days meant that he did owe her something.

"Fine," he said, eventually. "If you really want to."

Molly nodded, her throat suddenly dry. She walked round to Sherlock's side of the work bench and sat on the stool next to him. He was staring down the microscope, apparently fascinated by what a blank slide would look like at 150x magnification. But, he was holding out his left hand out to her.

Molly went to take hold of Sherlock hand, but she paused, her own hands hovering above his. She was taking a risk and she knew it. Either he would tolerate it and maybe allow her to massage his hand again in the future, gradually becoming more accepting of touch; or he would absolute hate it and resent her for even trying. It could change their friendship.

The pathologist bit her lip. She was not so sure about this now. She stole another glance at Sherlock's face. The light from the microscope deepened the shadows around his eyes, making him look terribly pale. He probably had not been sleeping properly.

This deepened Molly's resolve to try and help in the best way that she could think of. It would be a lot easier to help Sherlock if he could be made to feel better from mere words, but they never did. After he had complained about the heat and the road works and the lack of cases, Molly had tried to reassure him by reminding him that things will go back to normal soon.

Sherlock had glared at her like she was stupid. "I know, but that doesn't things better now!"

So, if Sherlock would not or could not talk to her about her feelings, then she would have to resort to her hand massaging skills. Plus, her father had once said that a little light physical contact could be comforting and grounding.

Molly had read all of Sherlock's articles posted on his website, including the essay on reading clues about a person's lifestyle from their hands.

What could she tell about the detective from his hand? She wanted to try out the instructions about observation and deduction for her herself. That was the excuse she would tell herself while she worked. She needed some distraction from the reality of what she was about to do. She was feeling very nervous.

She took hold of his left hand in hers and began to work, pressing down on his palm with her thumb and moving in a small circle. She felt Sherlock immediately tense up as soon as she took his hand. It would have to be a short session. Molly chose to focus on his hand.

At first glance the left hand was unremarkable. There was a small mole beneath his trigger finger. Unimportant. Molly turned his hand over with a frown. There had to be something. This was the hand in which he held his violin. The fingers which played all the notes. Molly had never seen Sherlock play, but she bet he was skilled at it. Hitting upon an idea, she held the trigger finger between her own finger and thumb and gently drew it out and back it again. It was loose and flexible, as a musician's hands should be.

Sherlock began to watch her, Molly's fingers rhythmically applying different amounts of pressure to the muscles in the palm of his hand, her thumb rubbing the joints of his fingers.

Molly had been correct. It felt comforting, but was also a little too personal for Sherlock to feel completely at ease. But, he was doing as a favour to her.

After another minute he tried to draw his hand away, but Molly clung on, staring down at his in hand in intense concentration. He shifted uncomfortably. This situation was far more intimate than he could take but, he did not have the heart to stop her; she was in the deduction zone. Instead, he tried to relax by concentrating on his breathing.

There were numerous faint scars on Sherlock's hand, the longest stretching from the curve between his thumb and trigger finger down to his wrist. Who knew how he got that?

Molly continued to rub his hand and Sherlock felt that he could no more. If she did not stop now he would have a meltdown and that would be unpleasant for them both.

"Molly, that's enough," he said, his voice only just sounding calm.

Molly immediately snapped out of her reverie, dropping his hand as if it were red hot.

"Sorry! But, how did you find it?"

Sherlock considered his answer. He was not really sure how he found it.

"I didn't hate it completely." His nerve suddenly left him and he hurried towards the nearest exit. He had to get home. "Thanks."

Molly sighed and started to clean the abandoned equipment up.

ooooooo

The next day Sherlock was back in the lab. He was hunched over microscope but Molly was a little surprised when he held out his left hand again.

"You want another one?" she asked.

"Hhmm. You said to think of it as an experiment and that it would help desensitise me to touch. You can't do that with only one go. How long was I able to tolerate it yesterday?"

Molly shrugged. "I wasn't timing."

Sherlock huffed irritably. "That's not very scientific."

"No," Molly agreed. "I'll find a stop-watch. And we'll have to do it in an exactly same conditions as yesterday. Uh, not all of the lights were on and the door to the office was open…"

Molly paced around the lab, setting it up to look as it had done yesterday. She was doing for Sherlock's benefit really; if he felt more comfortable with receiving his massage under and literally _in_ lab conditions, then so be it.

oooooo

John returned to Baker Street early on the Sunday evening. As he stepped out of the taxi hauling his bag behind him, he felt a sense of foreboding as he saw the yellow barriers up around a large hole in the road. Sherlock was not good with road works. The noise from the all machinery had a tendency to drive him up the wall.

Mrs. Hudson came out of her flat to greet and warn him.

"He hasn't had a case all week, but he has been going to the lab everyday."

John walked up the stairs with some trepidation. He knew that Sherlock would have bored without case, but at least he had been out everyday.

When he got into the flat he could not see Sherlock anywhere. He went down the hall to Sherlock's bedroom, knocking softly on the door before opening it.

Sherlock was fast asleep in his bed despite it still being early in the evening.

Not a good sign, John thought.

He spotted a gel pack lying on bare floor. The kind of gel pack which could either be cooled down in the freezer or heated up in the microwave. John knew that it meant that Sherlock had been suffering stomach pain again. He always felt a little inadequate during these times of pain. Sherlock would never accept painkillers and there was very little John could do to help him, except make suggestions of heat packs and warm baths.

"Why are you standing there?" Sherlock mumbled, eyes still closed.

"Sorry. Do you want me to heat this up for you?" John asked, patting the gel pack even though Sherlock could not see it.

"No. I'm fine. Molly's been massaging my hand."

"Oh," said John, slightly taken aback. "And that helps?"

"Mmm," Sherlock murmured, snuggling further down in his bed.

John wanted to interrogate Sherlock some more so that he could understand what circumstances had led shy Molly Hooper to give cold Sherlock a massage and why on earth Sherlock has accepted it, but Sherlock was already asleep again. John shrugged to himself; he was unlikely to find out. But, at least it seemed to have helped Sherlock unwind.

John quietly closed the bedroom door and left Sherlock in peace.

_Thank you for reading!_


	13. Pain Perception

_I don't own Sherlock_

Pain Perception

_From the Mind Palace of Sherlock Holmes_

The murderer had been attempting a futile escape. At least it would have been futile if I had not been forced to go to hospital against my will.

Lestrade was about to formally caution him when he ran away. He had easily out ran the Yarders, but I had been close behind him.

He had ran into a dark ally when I had caught up with him. He pulled out a knife and we engaged in a fight.

I felt a white hot flash of pain, but it quickly receded. In that second of distraction he took off again. I followed, but that time I found I was having difficulty running. My gait had turned into a stagger and the ally was spinning. But, as far as I was concerned there was no reason for this. I knew I had been injured by the knife, but that would not slow me down. There was no pain, so the injury could not have been a serious one.

My legs gave way and I fell to my knees. I pounded the ground with my fist, frustrated. Why was my transport disobeying me now?

"Oh, shit!" the voice of Sergeant Donovan. She was kneeling beside me, her hand on my shoulder. I tried to shrug her away, but she held on. She spoke urgently into her radio, "We need an ambulance right away! The Freak's been stabbed!" And then to me, "Just stay calm, okay?"

I should stay calm? I was not the one who was panicking over a little cut.

I tried to get to my feet, but Donovan forced me down.

"Don't!" she hissed.

"Oh, shit!" Lestrade this time.

He knelt opposite Donovan and together they had effectively pinned me to the floor. I struggled to get up, but they kept pushing me back down. It was a ridiculous situation - the murderer was getting away and injured or not, I was feeling more agitated by having Donovan pressing all of her weight onto my right side with Lestrade pushing me into the ground by my shoulder.

At least Lestrade recognised this.

"Thanks, Sally. You go wait for the ambulance; I'll stay with Sherlock!"

Why were they making such a fuss over nothing?

Donovan ran off. She should have ran in the opposite direction - towards the murderer.

"I don't need an ambulance!" I snapped. "I need you to get the fuck off!"

I rarely swear, it is usually beneath me. But, though I would never admit it, I could not stand having Lestrade leaning over me. I hated not being able to move, that my body was betraying me. I was slightly unnerved by the fuss Donovan and Lestrade were making over me. They were aware of something which I was not.

"Your face…" Lestrade gasped. He was pale and perspiring. "You're not feeling any pain at all, are you?"

"No, I'm not! Get off!"

I had no desire to go to hospital - to the overwhelming odours, the noises, not being able to do what I wanted. I had already made up my mind that I would not go.

The thought of being transported in an ambulance had been enough to make my stomach turn. There was nothing wrong with me then, but I knew that I would not be okay with the flashing lights and the siren wailing. That would hurt me.

I made one last try at pushing Lestrade away. But, there was no strength in my arms. Peculiar.

"Listen to me," Lestrade began.

I was staring at the sky, trying to focus and work out where the murderer would be by now. My thoughts were interrupted by my body shuddering. I was cold.

"Listen!" Lestrade barked. "I know that you're not feeling any pain, but you are going to have to trust me! You've been stabbed and have lost a lot of blood and are still bleeding."

I nodded to show that I did believe him this time. I was aware of a cold sensation in my right side, but other than that I felt nothing that would indict a serious wound.

I could hear the wail of an ambulance fast approaching. The high pitch squeal manifested itself as sharp pain in my ears. That is the big disadvantage of working alongside the police - plenty of sirens and flashing lights.

I groaned, covering my ears. It had hurt so much. Why was my body like this? Interpreting flashing lights and loud noises as pain, but a stab wound as…nothing?

"Sherlock? Open your eyes for me."

I did so reluctantly. It made everything worse.

My body started to relax, my vision blurring as the world span faster.

"Stay with me!" Lestrade's voice sounded far away.

No, I decided. I would allow myself to black out. At least that way I would not have to deal with ambulance ride. At least in the darkness there were no sirens blaring.

Oooooo

The hospital was as annoying and as tedious as I suspected it would be.

Lestrade had ridden in the ambulance with me and then stayed at the hospital until Donovan had delivered John straight from the clinic. He was sitting in the chair next to my bed when I woke up with a row of stitches down my side. I asked John to get the hospital staff to discharge me, but he would not hear of it.

Over the week I lost count of how many times I had been asked if I was in any pain. I always gave the truthful reply that I was not in any pain, but the bed sheets were scratchy and annoying the hell out of me.

You would be amazed at how many times they smiled in reply and commended me on my bravery. They had honestly thought I was joking. Nothing was done about the bed sheets.

I was only too glad to leave the hospital as soon as I could, although I was still having difficulty moving properly. My body was stiff even if I was unaware of any pain I may have been experiencing.

As soon as we had returned to Baker Street John had me lie down on the sofa. Mrs. Hudson was hovering in the living room, making ready to start her fussing. I was surrounded by neurotics.

John brought me a cup of tea. As I picked up the cup he slapped a pulse-rate monitor onto my wrist.

"Your mind is far too out of touch from what your body is experiencing," he huffed, fastening the clasp. "A great big Mind-Transport divide. It's time that you learn to close that divide slightly so that you can recognise when your transport is in pain."

"And if my heart rate climbs too high then I am experiencing pain," I said, examining the watch-like monitor with the digital screen. "And I should stop whatever it is I am doing." It resembled a watch and is used by John when he goes running. I sniffed the strap cautiously.

"I have washed it," John said, disparagingly. "I'm thinking of it as temporary precaution to try and prevent you from tearing out your stitches."

"Why would I do that?" I sighed, flopping back on the sofa, perhaps a little too hard.

"Careful!" John warned. "That is exactly why I'm worried! You need to move more slowly and carefully for the next few weeks. Pretend that you're an old person and you can't move easily."

I was too busy staring at the monitor to listen. I could conduct some interesting experiments.

"You need to wear the heart strap to go with it."

"Hmm."

"Well, I'm just glad that you're okay," Mrs. Hudson said. "But, I was a little surprised to hear from D.I Lestrade that he had persuade you to keep still. I would have thought that you would feel even more pain than other people, especially when you have trouble coping with flashing lights and sounds."

"It's the little details which are more important than the big ones," I replied. "I am affected by low levels of stimulation because they seem to stand out more to me. But, inflict on me high levels of pain and those senses seem to shut down. My brain is wired differently to yours and it seems that it is no so efficient at detecting pain.

I could sense that was something wrong with me, but it seemed distant and muffled somehow; like grasping hold of a cactus with a gardening glove."

Mrs. Hudson had nodded, but I am not sure that she understood.

I am aware that hyposensitivity to pain is a common enough trait amongst people with Asperger's, but it never ceases to amaze me. It also worries me that I can not trust my own perception of pain. If I had been on my own in that ally I would have bled to death.

"It is to do with neurology -" I began, but suddenly stopped.

Apparently, I had fallen asleep in mid-sentence. As always, my mind's energy had far exceeded that of my body. Stupid transport.

_Thank you for reading!_


	14. Empathy

_I don't own Sherlock_

Empathy

A few weeks after first moving into 221B, John was still suffering nightmares about his time spent in Afghanistan. His psychosomatic limp may have been cured, but that did not mean he was completely over his harrowing experiences as a soldier.

He woke up in the early hours one morning in late February. His heart was racing and his t-shirt was soaked in sweat - he felt intense, overwhelming fear. There were tears in his eyes.

For a minute or two, John lay back on his bed, breathing in and out as he tried to calm down. He glanced at the clock - 2.30 a.m.

John ran his hands threw his hair, before letting them rest over his face. He should get changed and try to go back to sleep, but he did not want to. He had not had a nightmare for a while and tonight's had been an especially bad one. He needed to get up and try to brush away the final wisps of fear which still clung to him. A cup of tea was in order.

He padded softly downstairs. He could smell the lingering tang of the curry he and his flatmate had ordered for dinner that evening. It was a comforting odour of a well-functioning balachor flat.

John smiled at the memory of Sherlock's face as he tasted John's curry, before downing a glass of water. The man was defiantly a light-weight when it came to curries and alcohol.

Thinking of his flatmate, John was not so surprised to see the kitchen light shining out from underneath the connecting door which lead into the hall. He had gone to bed before John, but it was not unusual for him to get up again if he had a new idea for an experiment which could not wait until morning.

John paused for a moment on the stair wondering whether he should turn around and go back to bed, or brave going into the kitchen and risking the questions from Sherlock Holmes.

Not that Sherlock would need to ask what he was doing up so early in the morning. If he went to make himself tea, then Sherlock would easily deduce that John had had a nightmare and John was not so sure that he wanted Sherlock to know about his nightmares.

It had been a quiet few weeks since the Taxi Driver case and John had not learnt anything particular new or interesting about Sherlock since. He had helped John to move his boxes of stuff up into his bedroom at the top of the house; they had discussed mundane subjects such as how to divide the rent up and which cupboard to keep the dinner plates in. But, since then Sherlock had kept himself to himself, switching between playing his violin and conducting chemistry experiments. John had spent the time job hunting, without success.

John was not going to complain about Sherlock's distantness. It just seemed different to how he was while investigating the serial suicides. But, he was defiantly not as bad as people made him out to be, calling him psychopath in every other sentence. That just seemed cruel to John's mind.

John went into the kitchen. Sherlock was hunched over his notebook, scribbling down observations of whatever substance lay beneath the lens of his microscope.

"Hello," John said.

Sherlock did not seem to hear, but carried on working. John shrugged and went to the kettle. It was a relief not to have Sherlock observing his nightmare.

As he stood by the sink, filling up the kettle, there was a sharp crack. Sherlock had knocked a glass beaker onto the floor, where it smashed. John gasped as memories of being trapped under gunfire flooded his mind. His hand shook, spraying water onto his t-shirt.

"Ow!" Sherlock muttered, rubbing his ear. He had not liked the sudden noise either. He blinked when he spotted John in the corner. "When did you come in?"

John's eyes were closed. He could see Murray, his friend, lying in the dust, blood oozing from the hole in his forehead. The kettle slipped from his fingers, clattering onto floor. It was enough to bring him back.

Sherlock again winced at the sharp sound, but he quickly recovered himself, gazing at the state of the floor.

"Broken glass, water and a kettle," he stated. "The floor is suffering this morning."

John could not move. Both hands were trembling now, tears flowed down his face, mixing with the beads of sweat.

The tap was still on and the cold water was spilling over the sides of the washing-up bowl and down the sink.

John stared at his hands. They were shaking so badly and no matter how hard he willed it, they would not stop. His breathing was shallow and far too fast. He was distantly aware of Sherlock telling him to turn the tap off.

Suddenly, Sherlock's arm reached past him and turned the tap off.

"You're having a panic attack," Sherlock informed him. "I know that breathing is boring, but do try to control it, John; the poor floor has had enough things dropped on it already without you passing out on it."

John placed his hands on his stomach and concentrated on breathing long, steady breaths outwards. Eventually, his heart rate slowed and his hands stopped shaking so badly. He fell into the second kitchen chair and watched while Sherlock silently and methodically mopped up the water, swept up the shards of glass and made John a cup of tea, before sitting back down on the stool and becoming immersed in his experiment once again.

"I saw my friend," John blurted out. "He - he was shot. Shot right next to me. He was my best friend. I keep seeing him! Night after night!"

John could not hold it in any longer. He had not planned on telling Sherlock about Murray, but now he had to. Ella, his therapist, knew all about it, but there was something different about telling an actual friend.

He paused, waiting for Sherlock's reaction.

Sherlock was looking at him over the top of his microscope. John could not read the expression on his face. It looked blank for the most part.

"Distressing dreams and flashbacks are persistent symptoms of PTSD. You'll get over it."

And then he went back to his notebook.

John stared at him in disbelief. He could not believe that anyone could have such a cold reaction. He had chosen to trust Sherlock enough to tell him something so important to him and all Sherlock could do was recite lists of PTSD symptoms at him and tell him that he would just get over it, like it was a common cold.

John's fist knocked his mug of tea flying sideways. It smashed against the adjacent cupboard, ceramic pieces and cold tea spraying everywhere.

"John?"

John was so angry that he charged back upstairs. He would have to leave Baker Street. He just could not live with anyone as selfish and self-absorbed as Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock sat in stunned silence at the kitchen island. What had he done wrong this time?

He was aware that he had inadvertently triggered a flashback in John and he was sorry for that, and for the panic attack which had come after that. Those things had been his fault and had it worried him to see John in so much distress.

But, then he had talked John through his panic attack, cleaned up the kitchen floor, made John a cup of tea and tried to reassure him about his mental health. He was also sorry that John was still grieving for a friend, but he had meant what he had said, that John _would_ get better, even if John did not believe that himself.

What more could he have done? What should he have said?

Sherlock cleaned up the broken mug and the cold tea. He had meant to be kind…but, obviously he had got it all wrong again.

Sherlock thumped the doorframe with his fist before he slouched off to bed. He was getting sick of this - making blunders and loosing friends. He had considered John a friend, but he suspected that John would not stick by him long after this episode.

Oooooooo

John felt a little apprehensive about going downstairs the next morning. He had not slept at all after the argument last night, but he already decided that he would start searching for a new flat. Sherlock would not want him around after last night, anyway.

Sherlock was sitting in his armchair, watching the news. John caught him eyeing him warily, before turning his attention back to the TV.

As John made his way to the kitchen he noticed there something draped over the back of _his_ armchair. It was a light blue blanket, but when John went to lift it, he found that it was surprisingly heavy.

"It's for you," Sherlock stated, bluntly. He turned off the TV. He was not very good at conducting conversations whilst distracted.

"It's a weighted blanket," John said, dumbly. "Is it yours?"

"Yes, but you can use it."

"Okay," John said, still not understanding completely. "But, why give it to me?"

Sherlock frowned with his isn't-it-obvious look.

"Weighted blankets provide DPTS, or Deep Pressure Touch Stimulation, which causes both serotonin and endorphins to be released into the brain. Together they can elevate a person's mood and reduce anxiety. Also, serotonin converts into melatonin, which will allow you to sleep better at night," he lectured. Then he frowned again. "Of course, the optimum weight of a weighted blanket is usually 10% of a person's bodyweight plus one pound; but, I think you still might feel the benefits."

"So, yours must weigh one pound then," John joked. He was starting to feel better about things again. Suddenly, he was thinking with a clear head again and looking back on last night he realised that Sherlock had done a lot for him. Practical things rather than gushing sentimental words at him. It was empathy expressed in a different way, but empathy all the same. The blanket was one more example of that.

"No, weren't you listening. I said -"

"Yeah, sorry, I get it," John apologised. "And thank you. I will try it out tonight."

"Good." Sherlock seemed pleased with himself.

"Tea?"

"Yes."John felt guilty when he went into the kitchen and saw that Sherlock had cleaned up after him. When he came back with the tea cups he asked, "Do you use that blanket often?"

"I've never used it," Sherlock replied. "My parents had it made for me as a present after I left university. But, I have no need for such things."

"I don't doubt it." John shuffled awkwardly in his seat. "I'm sorry about the way I acted last night. I was upset and not really thinking straight. Anyway, I am truly sorry." He flopped back exhausted in his seat. "I may act like that again in the near future. You said that flatmates should know the worst about each other and, well, sometimes I get angry. I hope that you will put up with me."

Sherlock picked up his violin, looking thoughtful.

"I was once told that feelings are never wrong," he said, quietly. "Just hard to control sometimes. I was told that after smashing a dinner plate."

John smiled. It was wrong of people to call Sherlock a psychopath. It was wrong of people to say that people with Asperger's are unable to empathise.

Over the coming years John would see that Sherlock Holmes was capable of great amounts of empathy, as he took on potentially boring cases sometimes just because the client cried, or as he tried to comfort other people, even if it looked slightly clumsy. Other people just did not always see it, but it was there. It was defiantly there.

_Thank you all so much for all of your kind reviews! _

_The information about weight blankets comes from a website called Dream Catcher Weighted Blankets. _

_Thank you again for reading!_


	15. DIY Weighted Blanket

_I don't own Sherlock_

D.I.Y Weighted Blanket

Two weeks ago Sherlock had finally returned home after spending two months chasing a notorious con man right across Europe. John had been unable to go with him because of his job at the clinic, but Sherlock had insisted that he would manage without him.

John and Mrs Hudson had heard very little from him during that time. There was the odd short text, but nothing truly informative.

Then suddenly one day in mid-April, he returned home.

Mrs Hudson had been enjoying her breakfast and watching the news in her kitchen, when she had heard the front door slam to and then an unusual sort of thud noise. She went out into the hall and found Sherlock fast asleep on the stairs. His suitcase was lying on its side by the front door.

Mrs Hudson's joy at seeing her tenant again had soon evaporated when she had seen the state of him. His face was gaunt and pale with purple smudges under his eyes, his hair was tangled and unwashed, and he had not shaved in the past few days. He had obviously been working himself far too hard over the past two months.

"Sherlock!" she had called loudly. "Sherlock, wake up!"

She was relived when his eyes had opened reluctantly.

"Hello," he mumbled.

"Come to my flat and have a lie down if you can't even make it up the stairs."

She had walked behind him as he stumbled his way down the hall and into her flat. He collapsed onto the sofa and fell asleep again.

Mrs Hudson had been glad that Sherlock felt comfortable with her touch because she had been able to gently take his shoes, coat and scarf off for him. When she had looked at his face again she could see that Sherlock was frowning in his sleep and was probably having a bad dream.

So, Mrs Hudson went to the flat upstairs to look for the weighted blanket she knew that Sherlock owned and sometimes lent to John if he was having nightmares.

She had found the blanket stuffed into the back of his wardrobe. But, when she had pulled it out she saw that there had been neat squares cut out of the fabric and the plastic pellets, which added weight to the blanket, had almost all been removed to be used in some long forgotten experiment.

Mrs Hudson had sighed and shut the wardrobe door. Instead, she gathered up Sherlock's duvet off his bed and trudged back downstairs. She carefully draped the duvet over Sherlock before she had raided her airing cupboard and pulled out all of her bath towels. She then carefully spread them out over the duvet, layering them so that their weight was evenly distributed over the consulting detective.

She had no idea if the stack of towels was too heavy or too light for him, and she was certain that he would get very hot underneath there, but then if he had not cut up his blanket then he could have used that.

However, Mrs Hudson had been pleased to see that Sherlock was starting to look a little more peaceful in his sleep than he had been a few minutes ago.

But, had given Mrs Hudson the idea of making a weighted blanket for him.

ooooo

Two weeks later and Mrs Hudson's blanket was almost finished.

She had found a pattern and instructions for making one online, and it had not seemed so complicated. The most trouble she had was actually buying the materials that she needed. Getting enough fabric was easy enough, but she could not think where she could buy the plastic pellets that she needed so she asked her neighbour, Mrs Turner, to order them from an online shop she had found.

The instructions told her that the total amount of plastic pellets should weigh 10% of the person's body weight plus one pound. Fortunately, John had a rough idea of how much Sherlock weighed.

In order to ensure that the plastic pellets were evenly distributed over the blanket to provide an even pressure the blanket should be sown into 36 squares, so six rows with six columns. The pellets would then have to be divided up into those squares and sown in.

At first Mrs Hudson had the idea that she would sow the Periodic Table onto the upside of the blanket, with one element in each square. But, then she found that there were more than just 36 elements. So, instead, she decided that she would go for a repeating pattern, alternating between a violin and a microscope, which summed him up in her mind at least.

After she had received the plastic pellets and weighed them out properly, the making of the blanket went quickly; she enjoyed spending the evenings sowing the pattern onto the blanket.

She did not see much of Sherlock during this time. He was still stuck in his room. He had been there since the night he had come home when John had practically dragged him upstairs to his bedroom.

As far as John and Mrs Hudson understood Sherlock had spent the past two months working with the police of three different countries, people he did not know, and had been interacting with them and socialising with them as well as anyone who did not have Asperger's might; now he was completely drained and had felt as though he had nothing left inside.

John was worried about him.

"He's having a social migraine of epic proportions," he told Mrs Hudson over coffee in her kitchen. "I've never seen him this bad. He can't talk to me. He can't even bear to text me at the moment. He's had over a hundred emails congratulating him, but he won't read them."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Mrs Hudson.

"He's best left alone for now and he'll come out when he's ready.

But, it's easy for you and me when it comes to social situations because it is all instinct. We just know what to do and what to say without having to think too hard about it. But, Sherlock has spent all of his life learning the social rules and he has to remember them and act them out every time he is placed in a social situation. It is like he is an actor trying to remember his lines while the play is being improvised. He is an excellent actor and is staying in character while the unexpected is happening on the stage and he doesn't know what will happen next. Most people won't even realise that he is not actually the character he is playing, not unless they catch him in his dressing room when he has allowed himself to come out of character.

So, I'm not too surprised that he's crashed like this. He played the part so well that no one over in Europe realised that he has Asperger's and that takes a huge amount of energy, especially as he has kept it up for two months."

Mrs Hudson nodded and took a sip of her coffee. That night she hurried to finish making the blanket. She only had to finish off the last column by putting in the plastic pellets and sewing the individual squares up.

When it was finished she took a final look at it spread out on her living room floor. It looked good. She carefully folded it up and placed it on her good hip before struggling up the stairs to the first floor flat.

John was on the sofa reading a book. When Mrs Hudson showed him the blanket he was openly impressed by her sewing skills, but secretly he did think that the alternating pattern of violins and microscopes was a bit of an odd choice.

Together they softly knocked on Sherlock's bedroom door before going in. He was still not in the mood for conversation but when Mrs Hudson held up the new blanket, he tipped off the layers of bath towels off his bed, which he had still been using as an alternative, and pulled on his new blanket.

"Thank you," he muttered before going back to sleep.

It was a success as far as Mrs Hudson was concerned and even in the months ahead when she would sneak into the boy's flat to do some cleaning she still found that Sherlock still had the blanket on his bed.

_Thank you so much, everyone, for so many amazing reviews and for following and favouriting this story. _

_I apologise because in the last chapter I mixed up my definitions of sympathy and empathy, and I hope that you will forgive me for that. _

_For this chapter I found online that there are patterns for making your own weighted blankets. I couldn't do it, but the instructions I looked at were by a man called David. I couldn't find his website again whilst typing this. _

_I based it a bit on The Reigate Squires story. _

_Also, yesterday I decided to see what a weighted blanket might feel like. So, I took out most of the bath towels from the airing cupboard and laid them across my duvet. We don't have many blankets in my house so that's why I used bath towels. Anyway, I may have used too many because I could barely move! However, I did manage to get out of bed again, just as my sister came home. She laughed at me when I told her that it felt like I was stuck in bed. But, what I did find was that although personally I did not like having the weight on my legs, I did feel more relaxed with the weight on my torso. _

_Anyway, thank you once again for reading. I don't deserve so many readers!_


	16. Spiders

_I don't own Sherlock_

Spiders

One day in the middle of October John went into the living room of 221B and saw a spider sitting in the middle of the floor.

It was just a common house spider, but it was a large one. John judged it to be about 6cm in width with its long legs stretching out.

John had never been afraid of spiders, although he had felt an instinctive aversion to them when he had been younger.

But, that was before he went out to Afghanistan, where he had dealt with Camel Spiders. After them a house spider just made him feel indifferent.

He fetched a glass from the kitchen and deftly trapped the spider underneath it. If he were living alone he would just have had chased the spider away, but with Sherlock around John suspected that the spider was in danger of being used in an experiment.

He placed a sheet of paper underneath the glass watching as the spider scurried around trying to climb up the inside of the glass.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked.

John straightened up holding the paper underneath the glass so that the spider would not fall through.

"I've caught a spider," he said, turning around. "Want to take a look before I put it outside?"

Sherlock eyed the glass warily. The spider was still frantically brushing its hairy legs against the glass. Sherlock paled considerably. He suddenly clapped a hand over his mouth and ran towards the kitchen sink, retching loudly.

John wandered for a second if he should put the spider down and go to Sherlock first, but then he suspected that the spider was the cause of Sherlock's vomiting. He opened a window and tipped the spider out.

"Sorry, mate," he muttered, before closing the window.

He went into the kitchen. Sherlock had finished being sick and had turned the tap on, rinsing out the sink.

"I don't have arachnophobia," Sherlock stated, looking tired.

"I never said that you did," John answered. He cleaned out the glass he was holding before filling it back up with water and holding it out to Sherlock.

Sherlock shook his head.

"Do you want a different glass?" John asked.

"No."

John shrugged before tipping the water away. "Fine. If you want vomit breath, whilst rotting your teeth on stomach acid. How about some tea instead?"

"Please," Sherlock yawned, sitting down at the island.

"So, do you know why you were sick?" John asked, filling up the kettle.

Sherlock shook his head.

"That's okay because I already have theory."

Sherlock looked up, suspicious. "Really?"

"Hmm," John nodded, dropping tea bags into the teapot. "You're suffering Morning Sickness because you are, in fact, pregnant."

"What?" Sherlock cried, and then he realised that John was laughing quietly. "Oh, you're being sarcastic."

"Yes," John admitted. "I've noticed that first thing in the mornings you're -"

"I'm more stupid than in the afternoons?" Sherlock snapped. He was rubbing his hands together in agitation.

"No," John frowned. "I was about to say that because you're still half-asleep it takes you a little longer to recognise sarcasm."

The kettle finished boiling and John poured the hot water into the teapot, swirling the teabags with a spoon. He stole a glance at Sherlock who staring into space, twirling a curl around his finger. He looked upset.

"I'm sorry," John said, searching for milk in the fridge. "I was only teasing you. It's just what mates do. When I was in the Army my mates would place all of the medical supplies on top of places where I couldn't reach. I was the shortest medic in my team. It got a little wearing at times, having to climb up to get things down, but they did it because we were friends."

"I would call that bullying," Sherlock replied, absently.

"It wasn't bullying," John shook his head. "We were a close team."

Sherlock shifted in his seat. "So, why did you tell me something you knew I'd believe? For a second I thought you were seriously considering the idea that I might be pregnant."

John smiled. "It's funny watching you react. Firstly, because you looked confused and then because you looked annoyed. But, if I had thought that you wouldn't recognise that I was lying a second later, I wouldn't have said it in the first place. It wouldn't have been funny then. Keep this to yourself, but it's one of the reasons that I like you. As a friend."

Sherlock took the mug of tea John was holding out to him.

"I find it difficult to believe that my neurological delay in reading the tone of people's voices could be considered a good quality for being a friend," he said.

John shrugged. "Many women would find it cute." He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Were you bullied at school?" he asked.

Sherlock looked up sharply.

"You don't have to answer me," John said, quickly. "It's just from the way you reacted I was -"

"What do you want to know?" Sherlock asked, staring at him.

"Did you have any friends at school?"

"No."

"Did you want to have friends?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment. "Yes, but I didn't know how to make them. School was hell for me."

John stared down at his mug, tapping the side with his thumb.

"The way spiders move makes me feel nauseous," Sherlock suddenly said.

John watched Sherlock carefully. Sherlock was not looking at him, but out of the kitchen window, rubbing his hands again.

"Why?" John asked, quietly.

"I used to try and hide during break times and during the dinner hour. There were trees on the school ground. So, I would climb them and stay there. That way the other boys would not find me. But, once when I was seven I was not fast enough and some of the boys in the year above me caught me," Sherlock was talking slowly, weighing up each sentence in his mind before speaking them. "One of them had a spider in his hands. A common house spider, I think."

John went back to staring down at his mug. Sherlock was telling him something important and was probably easier if he was not stared at. John could guess where the story was going and it made him shudder.

Sherlock had paused, but then he swallowed loudly before carrying on. "The other boys pinned me against the tree trunk so that I couldn't move. The boy with the spider pushed his hands against my mouth. I kept my mouth closed and I could feel the spider's legs brushing against my lips. I don't like light touch from other people let alone an arachnid. I wanted to yell and that's when I inadvertently opened my mouth." Sherlock paused again, still staring out of the window. "I tried coughing the spider out of my mouth, but the boy still had his hand clapped over it, so there was no way that the spider was going to get out. I may have imagined it, but I think that I could feel the spider moving around in my stomach."

They sat in silence for a minute or two before John broke it.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," he murmured quietly. "Did you tell a teacher, or anyone?"

Sherlock shook his head. He still would not look directly at John.

"I don't -" he began. He brushed his fingers against his lips. "Talking was not always easy for me as a seven year old. I did not have the words to explain to people, whom I did not trust anyway, what had happened. I spent the rest of the afternoon trying not to be sick. I just sat in my chair, sweating with anxiety." He shook his head again. "I refused to go back to school after that. But, I was unable to tell my parents why until Mycroft somehow deduced it. I still don't know how he did it. But, I think that it was after that incident that I decided that I did not need or want friends."

John nodded silently. He did not know what to say. But, the way Sherlock had been treated was truly awful. He slammed down his mug, sending tea slopping onto the table.

"I wish I had been there!" he said. "I would have kicked their sorry asses for you!"

"Your family would not have been able to afford the fees," Sherlock said, quietly.

"Doesn't matter! I would have taken them on - and beaten them to a pulp. You said that they were only in the year above you, which means that I would have been older than them."

"And half their height. By the way, that was sarcasm. Not even you would have been quite that short."

"Okay," John said, rolling his eyes. "But, in our shared imagination, let's just pretend that my family could afford the school fees and that I was bigger than them."

"Fine," Sherlock agreed, closing his eyes. Then he winced. "No, you're still being beaten up and I'm still ending up with a spider in my mouth."

"Fine!" John snapped, thinking. "Then - then how about I eat the spider in your place and you hide in your tree?"

"No, that doesn't make any sense. They're after me, John, not you!" Sherlock stood up, staring John down.

"Just go, Sherlock! Hide in your tree!" John yelled, pointing to the imaginary tree in the corner of the kitchen.

They were both caught up in their role-play. It was hard not to laugh. John was thinking that they had been watching too many action films lately.

"No! I'm staying!"

"Don't be an idiot! They're coming! Now go!"

"I don't need you to defend me!" Sherlock bellowed, slamming the table with his fist. "I don't need friends!"

"Yes, you do! We all do!"

"I'll make a terrible friend!"

"Doesn't matter!"

"Come with me, John! We'll hide together! Up - up -" Sherlock was pointing to the ceiling, but he was laughing so hard that he could not talk.

"This is no time for laughing…" John trailed off, laughing himself. "They're coming…"

"I am interrupting?" a cool voice asked.

Sherlock and John leapt apart. Lestrade was standing in the doorway, giving them both very strange looks.

"There's a body in the local Rock Emporium," Lestrade said. "Will you come now or after you've finished playing?"

"Right behind you," Sherlock replied, gruffly.

"I've told you before that your giggling will get us into trouble," John grumbled, after Lestrade had left.

"Then don't say things to make me laugh," Sherlock shrugged. "By the way, I am pregnant."

"You're hilarious."

"Really?"

"No."

"Sarcasm?"

"Yep."

_A/N:_ _Thank you all again for so many reviews! I'm so grateful! Thank you also to those of you who found that D.I.Y weighted blankets website I was typing about and for putting the addresses in your reviews - thank you!_

_I'm sorry this one is a bit rushed. I typed it quickly. I wanted to write about John's sense of humour. Having been both a medical student and a soldier I think that John must know lots of practical jokes and have a quite an odd sense of humour. And because I think that the kind of dark humour that soldiers are renowned for having is not really accepted in the civilian life, I imagine that John is glad that Sherlock accepts it and shares it. What I mean is that in a Study in Pink John basically says, "Yes, I shot that man. But, he wasn't a very nice man and frankly a bloody awful cabbie." if John had said that to anyone other than Sherlock, they would have been horrified. But, Sherlock carries the joke forward by saying, "Yes, he was a bad cabbie." So, it's just my opinion but I imagine John enjoys having a friend who is okay with a soldier's humour, without finding it offensive. _

_But, that's just what I think and now I'm waffling. _

_Thank you all again for reading, reviewing and following!_

_By the way - Camel Spiders! I typed into the search engine Spiders In Afghanistan and Camel Spiders came up, although it was mostly U.S Soldiers talking about them in Iraq. So, I'm not sure where they live specifically. So, sorry if I've made a mistake and if I'm right - poor John having to face them. They are huge. _


	17. Father

_I don't own Sherlock_

Father

Molly Hooper was alone in the lab of St. Bart's Morgue. She was humming happily to herself as she cleared up the debris of one of Sherlock's abandoned experiments. He had been working quietly by himself before suddenly walking out without a single word. Molly had thought he had probably slipped out for a coffee or to use the toilet, but that was over two hours ago now.

She was just replacing the slides under the microscope having washed them up, when she heard the door swinging open behind her. She flinched slightly, expecting it was Sherlock returning who would be less than happy to find his experiment cleaned away.

But, the man standing in the doorway was not Sherlock. Although he did look a little like Sherlock. He was older with black hair neatly swept back, revealing grey at the sides. He had the same piercing blue eyes as Sherlock.

"Can I help you?" Molly asked, hesitantly.

The man certainly reminded her of Sherlock, but it would be too embarrassing for her to ask outright.

"I am lost," the man announced. "I'm looking for the morgue."

"Oh, well, you're in the right place."

"Good." The man strode over to her and shook her hand warmly. Molly could not help but think that he was a little more grimy than would be expected for a man with an upper-class accented. "I've been wandering around London for the past three days. It's a lot bigger than I remember."

Molly laughed nervously, thinking that he was exaggerating or joking.

"Have you seen my son? The younger one I mean. I'm told that he's often in here."

"Oh, do you mean Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry, but you missed him. About three hours ago now."

Sherlock's father frowned. "The search continues," he muttered darkly. But then he suddenly brightened. "You must be Molly Morgue."

"What?" Molly asked. "No, I'm Molly Hooper. Who's been calling me Molly Morgue?"

"Dr Watson," the man said, sitting himself down on a stool. "On his blog. Unless people have been hacking into his blog and calling you Molly Morgue instead of Molly Hooper. But, I think that seems rather improbable. Sherlock being the exception, of course." He peered with interest down the microscope, adjusting the magnification. "Yes, Sherlock would do that." He looked up sharply. "I'm Jeremy Holmes, by the way. Sherlock's father. Do you know the way to 221B Baker Street?"

"Ye-es," Molly said slowly. Jeremy was proving himself to be an odd individual and if he could get himself lost on the way to the morgue whilst inside the hospital, then Molly was unsure if he would be able to find his way to Baker Street even with directions. "But, it's a bit of a trek. Uh, how about calling a taxi cab?"

"I'd rather walk," Jeremy smiled, placing his chin in his hand.

"Yes, but to be honest, Mr. Holmes, I think you might get lost."

Jeremy straightened up, staring at her.

"What do you know about nineteenth century cricket, Miss Hooper?" he asked, in a low whisper.

Molly stared. He was asking her in a sinister voice. She knew that Mycroft Holmes worked for the British Government, so maybe Jeremy Holmes did too. Was this some sort of test?

"Nothing," she whispered back. "Should I?"

Jeremy stood up, towering over her. "If you want to understand Sherlock and Mycroft, then yes you should."

"I'm sorry," Molly whimpered. "I don't know anything about cricket. I - I've never been interested -"

"Oh, are you not?" Jeremy asked, looking disappointed. He plopped back down on the stool. "I shan't mention it again then. I have narrow interests, Miss Hooper, and it's never my intention to bore people."

_What?_ Molly yelped inside her head.

"Could you find me the number for a taxi firm, please?" Jeremy asked.

"Uh, sure," Molly replied. "Just one minute."

She went out into the corridor and towards the direction of her office. She bumped into Sherlock on the way and was glad to see him.

"I've come to finish the experiment," he announced. "I hope that you don't have any plans for tonight, Molly. It's going to be a long one."

"You can't," Molly said. "Sherlock, your father's here!"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her and then decided that she was not lying.

"Oh," he said, sounding a little surprised. "Which fridge?"

"No!" Molly cried. "Not - not in there! In there!"

Sherlock shrugged at her, conveying his confusion.

"The lab!"

"Did he say what he wanted?"

"No. He just said that he was looking for you."

Molly followed Sherlock back into the lab. Jeremy Holmes stood up again, smiling softly.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked in his usual blunt fashion. He was looking his father up and down. "Judging by the state of you, I see that you've been wandering around for at least three days."

"Really?" Molly gasped. "I thought he was joking!"

"He gets lost easily," Sherlock said, not taking his eyes of his father.

"I'm here for two reasons," Jeremy said.

"Yes?"

"Wedding vows."

"New ones?"

"No, renewed ones."

"Why?"

Jeremy examined his fingernails. "Your Mother and I have rediscovered what brought us together in the first place."

"She's pregnant out of wedlock."

"No, no. Ping Pong."

_Ping Pong, really?_ Molly asked herself.

"And the second reason?" Sherlock asked, apparently unperturbed about the odd mental image of his parents playing Ping Pong.

"You."

"Why?"

Jeremy raised an eyebrow. "You were stabbed not long ago, Sherlock. Your mother and I are concerned about you. By the way, I like the new coat."

"Oh, thank you," Sherlock smiled, flicking his collar. "I think that it suits me more than the old one."

"Yes, I agree. It's very fetching."

"It's the same coat," Molly stated dumbly.

"Really?" Jeremy blinked. He leaned towards Sherlock for a closer look at his overcoat. "It looks completely different to me."

Sherlock gave Molly a withering look. "It's only qualitatively similar, Molly. But, numerically it is completely different. I was stabbed whilst wearing the other one and it is hospital policy to throw away anything which may be considering a biohazard. And it was covered in blood. As was my suit. In fact, I lost many favourite items of clothing that day."

Jeremy clicked his tongue in sympathy. "Nasty. Anyway, will you come to the ceremony? For the renewing of my vows to your mother?"

"Why?" Sherlock retorted. "What's the point? You both have broken your vows once. There is nothing to stop you from breaking them again. It seems pretty hollow and meaningless to me."

"Yes, I agree with you," Jeremy said. "It is also sentimental. But, I want to do it for Sylvia. She wants a clear day in her mind in which she can say to herself, "That's the day we started all over again." Despite what people think or say, I have never had an affair and haven't had a relationship with anyone apart from your mother."

"So, why did you split up?" Molly asked. Jeremy and Sherlock looked at her. "Sorry, it's none of my business! But, you clearly love Sylvia -"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the L word.

" -so what went wrong? If you don't mind me asking."

Jeremy looked thoughtful for a moment. "I'm a difficult man to live with. I like everything to be done my way and that won't change. I can't change who I am, but I am willing to make some compromises this time and try to be more understanding of Sylvia. I will make our marriage work this time. So, Sherlock, I ask again, will you come to the ceremony? It would make both of us very happy to have you there."

"Fine," Sherlock sighed. "I'll be there."

"Good."

Jeremy took a step forward and awkwardly wrapped his arms around Sherlock. Sherlock looked horrified.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, pushing his father away.

"On a scale of one to ten, how was it?"

"Excuse me?"

"On a scale of one to ten, how was it?" Jeremy repeated.

Sherlock looked blank.

Jeremy said. "My therapist suggested that when I hug my children I should ask you to rate it on a scale of one to ten, so that I can learn what makes a good hug, how much pressure to apply, that sort of thing. So, how was it?"

Sherlock blinked. "I suppose that depends on the scale you're using. And how you measure the quality of a hug. What does ten mean?"

"No idea."

"Ah. Molly, any thoughts? Hugging is more your area."

Molly shrugged. "I would say that the measurement of a hug's quality should be a completely personal and privet decision between the hugger and the hug-ee and should be unique to that relationship."

"I think that you are taking it far too seriously."

Jeremy glanced at his watch.

"I have to go now, Sherlock," he announced, slipping on his coat. "I will email you the details of the ceremony as soon as it is all worked out. Goodbye, Miss Hooper. Lovely to have to met you."

"Oh, should I phone you a taxi?" Molly asked.

"No, I need the exercise." Jeremy breezed towards the door. He was about to walk out when he suddenly paused. "And Sherlock?"

"Yes, Father?"

"I've heard all about the Taxi Driver and the Baskerville cases from Mycroft. Watch out for that Moriarty; obsession is dangerous. And as always: hope for the best and prepare for the worst. Evening."

He winked at Sherlock before disappearing through the door and out of sight.

"Moriarty?" Molly whispered. "Sherlock, will he come after me? He knows me and -and should I be afraid? I've wanted to ask since he let you go during the swimming pool incident."

Sherlock gave her faint smile. "No, you shouldn't be afraid, Molly. I don't believe he considers you to be important, so it's doubtful that he would bother to come after you. But, if it will put your mind at rest, Mycroft and I are diligently sticking to the Holmes family motto. Hoping for the best -"

"And preparing for the worst," Molly finished, softly.

_A/N:_ _Hello, everyone. _

_In the last chapter Sherlock talks about being bullied. I wanted to do a bit about that after watching theAnMish (one word) talking about her experiences of school on YouTube. She talks about hiding in trees, so that's why I put that in. But, they are videos worth watching. She is an excellent talker. _

_Also, in the Pain Perception chapter the idea of using a heart monitor is a common idea I think. I first heard Dr. Tony Attwood suggesting for people who want to be able to recognise when they are becoming angry. I guessed that the same principle for monitoring pain might work. The hugging scale is also his, not sure how it works. _

_As for this chapter the Holmes family motto is Conan Doyle's motto. And the connection between 19__th century__ cricket and Sherlock and Mycroft - I'll leave that to you. I'm sure most of you know anyway._

_Thank you again so much for reading and reviewing and following! It's just amazing, so thank you again!_


	18. Meltdown

_I don't own Sherlock_

Meltdown

It was a week after John and I moved into 221B Baker Street that I had a meltdown.

I was not enjoying the experience. Having a flatmate was a first for me, which forced me into some confusing situations I was not sure how to handle.

In my hard drive I have an index of memorised social situations. Every time I come across a new situation I save the memory and catalogue it so that if in the future I come across that scenario again I can access my catalogue and see what I should be saying or doing. Sometimes I require a certain amount of trial and error before I am satisfied with the results, which means deleting and replacing certain memories with times when I have acted more appropriately.

I have also supplemented the index with the experiences of other people. I regularly read gossip magazines, particularly the real life sections; I also read a lot online. In this way, I have some data for even the situations I am highly unlikely to find myself in. For example, I highly doubt that I will ever have to deal with an overbearing mother-in-law, but I know how to stop her interfering with the housework without making her feel unwanted.

But, recording second-hand experiences of being a flatmate was no real substitute for experiencing it for real.

I liked John when he assisted me in solving the Taxi Driver case, but I didn't like living with him. He chewed his food loudly; he would leave doors open before remembering that he had left them open and then slammed them shut (it's not so much the noise of the door slamming that I dislike, but the change in air pressure. I hate umbrellas for the same reason. I can always feel the gust of air which is created by an umbrella opening.) wore really strong smelling deodorant; he talked too loudly; breathed too loudly; wore woolly jumpers I could smell half way across the room; pointed out the obvious; said good morning, hello, good night for no real reason; and a few other petty reasons.

I also found his friendliness unnerving. I was not used to the idea that someone could be so interested in my entire life. Mycroft once described me as being like a hedgehog: I become very defensive when somebody tries to get close to me; I curl up with spines pointing outwards.

It also didn't help that John didn't have a job to go to everyday, which meant that we were both in the flat together, getting very bored.

But, what I disliked the most about John was his PTSD. It caused him to be very emotionally clingy at times and I was always at a loss on how to cope with hearing him describe his nightmares. Seeing such strong emotions makes me feel uncomfortable. I could give him logical answers to the issues of PTSD, but John also required emotional support. I never been very good at that.

I should have recognised the signs that a serious meltdown was brewing inside of me, but I had been so caught up in the case I failed to take note.

I came close to having a minor one during Lestrade's fake drug bust. There were too many people in the room at once, invading my privacy. Anderson nearly pushed me over the edge. It was fortunate that Lestrade seemed to pick up on my discomfort and ordered Anderson to turn his back.

So, it was many different things which made feel stressed which led to me to having a meltdown. But, what pushed me over the edge was the whine and hum of Mrs. Turner's vacuum coming from the adjoining wall.

I had already been having a bad day. Both Mrs Hudson and John were out and I was feeling bored after the Taxi Driver case. I was looking listlessly around my new flat and missing my old one, from which I had been evicted. I was tired and fed up with John; and contemplating the idea of whether I should move out again and find a cheaper place of my own.

Then Mrs Turner started hoovering next door. The noise just went on and on and on. I couldn't think clearly. It was suffocating. That's when I lost control.

oooooo

When the red mist cleared from my eyes, I saw that the room had been smashed. By me.

I had knocked the chairs over; swept everything off the mantelpiece; stabbed the desk repeatedly with the jack knife; and many of the pictures in their glass frames were now lying forlornly on the floor, torn and tattered.

I couldn't remember doing any of those things. That for me is the hallmark of a truly terrible meltdown, the likes of which I have not suffered in over seven years. I usually go through a relatively minor meltdown once every two years, but they are nothing like the one I had just had.

The worst part is not being able to recall any of my actions during the meltdown, but instead deducing them. I tracked my progress from the marks on the carpet, the angles of the tipped over chairs, and the scattering of the sharps of glass embedded on the floor. I deduced which hand I had used to throw everything off the mantelpiece and I knew for exactly how long I stood there before grabbing the jack knife.

My heart was still pounding in my chest and I was clutching the blade of the jack knife in my hand, blood was dripping from my fingers. I swallowed hard, my breath caught in my throat. I was shaking. It had been a really bad one.

All was quiet. Mrs Turner had finished her cleaning. I was still alone in the house.

I knew that I had last left my violin lying on a cushion on the sofa, but I didn't want to turn around to check if it was still there intact. It is my one sentimental item. If I had broken it I would never forgive myself.

I couldn't move at all. I just stood there, frozen, in the middle of the carpet, grasping the knife as if it could jolt me back into action.

John would be home at any moment. I knew that I should force myself to move and to clean up, hiding the evidence of my destruction. But, the more I considered what his reaction would be if he saw what I had done, the more frozen I felt.

John didn't know that I have Asperger's. He didn't know that occasionally I have meltdowns and shutdowns and sensory issues.

But, if he came in now and saw this mess and saw me standing rooted to the spot, holding a bloody knife, he would call me a freak, psychopath, sociopath - anything like that. I wasn't sure at the time and certainly still not thinking very clearly at that point. Truthfully, I felt afraid that John might section me.

All of these fears began weigh down on me. I crouched on the floor, arms wrapped around my head, still holding the knife.

I could hear the cruel laughter of children in my head as they made snide comments about me being like The Hulk. I could hear teachers telling me off for overreacting and telling me to think about what I had done. I can remember people trying to hold me down.

Feelings of shame and guilt always swamp me in the aftermath, making me feel so heavy that I couldn't move.

How could I not see this meltdown coming? I usually recognise the signs and retreat into my bedroom to calm down. But, how did I miss the signs of a meltdown so big?

I needed Mycroft or even Lestrade. He has seen me meltdown before, just not on this scale. But, not John. Please not him. He will want to see my hand, to pull the knife away. But, I knew that I couldn't handle touch at that point.

I needed my father. The meltdowns were at their worse during my teenage years and somehow he always knew exactly how to handle me. Sometimes he would be reassuring, telling me that it would be okay. Other times he would tell me to calm down in a voice that was quiet but firm. And other times he wouldn't say anything at all, just wait for me to stop. He always knew what I needed. I was never blamed.

But, of course, John did come. I heard the front door slam to, heard his footsteps running up the stairs, then the shocked silence and the swearing under his breath.

More footsteps as he hurried to my side. I tensed up tighter, bracing myself for the hand clapping down on my shoulder, the booming voice down my ear.

"Sher-" John began, but then suddenly stopped.

There was a pause and then there was the swish of curtains being closed. I felt a little bit more relaxed in the semi-darkness.

"Sherlock, I don't understand what has happened, but it's okay," he said, in a low voice.

I was amazed at how calm he sounded. But, nothing seems to ruffle John. Even when I stored a severed head in the fridge, John was fine with it after his initial surprise. In fact, I seem to recall that that day he was more upset with me for not liking his blog. That sums John Watson up: severed heads in fridges are fine, dissing his blog is not.

"I need you to let go of that knife."

He waited for me to respond but I failed to do anything. I felt humiliated that he had seen me in such a state.

"Sherlock, let go of that knife, now." His voice was still even, calm, but there was a defiant edge to it.

I heard my father's voice in his. Somehow that helped. I relaxed my grip on the knife blade and it slowly fell onto the carpet, adhering slightly to the dried blood on my hand.

I heard John sigh with relief and he quickly moved forward, removing the knife from my reach and hiding it somewhere. He didn't ask to see my hand straight away. He sensed that he shouldn't.

"Do you want to move?" he asked.

I shook my head.

"Can I sit by you?"

I didn't respond to that, but John stayed where he was. He settled himself down, cross-legged on the floor. He looked comfortable, at ease.

"That's okay," he said, softly. "We could sit here all night if we wanted to. There's no rush."

He was making it clear that he wasn't going to leave me on my own. But, at the same time he didn't sound angry, or upset. If anything the more he talked the more relaxed he sounded.

He started to tell me about his therapy session. He had told Ella about me. She had been interested. She still wanted John to keep a blog.

He droned on. I listened, and started to relax.

I felt relieved. He wasn't angry and he wasn't demanding anything of me. We would have stayed there all night if I wanted to.

John must have noticed me relaxing because he asked, "May I see your hand?"

I nodded, unfolding my hand. John licked his lips when saw the cut and fetched the first aid kit, a towel and a bowl of warm water.

He talked me through what he was doing: washed away the dried blood, dried my hand, cleaned the gash and wrapped a bandage around it. After that he made me a cup of tea and told me to go and wind-down in my bedroom. It was a good idea and so I went.

On my way I glanced at the sofa and was relieved to see that I had obviously not been anywhere near that side of the room. My violin was still safe.

oooooooo

The next day I woke up and reluctantly left my bedroom with the trepidation of someone venturing outside to their garden to inspect the damage after a bad storm.

John had cleaned up. Everything was back in their places, apart from the jack knife. The broken glass was also missing from the carpet. John must have used the vacuum, but I hadn't heard it. I must have slept heavily all through the evening and night.

I wasn't sure why he had done something so kind for me.

He was sitting at the kitchen table sipping a cup of tea.

"Oh, morning," he said, looking up. "Do you want some tea?"

I ignored him, still eyeing the living room suspiciously.

"Yes, I cleaned up," John said. "You could say thank you."

Instead I said, "I have Asperger's Syndrome." My throat was dry.

I hadn't wanted to tell him, but after last night he had questions. I was expecting the standard response from him: You can't be autistic. You look too normal.

But, that is not how John reacted. Instead he nodded and said, "Yes, that explains a lot."

I blinked at him. "What do you mean?"

"I thought you might have Asperger's, but I didn't want to bother asking. I'm no expert on it, although I knew a little from medical school."

"Why didn't you want to bother asking?"

"Because I couldn't be bothered," John smiled. I wasn't sure if he was teasing me or not. "You are who you are, Sherlock. And besides you don't seem like the sort of man who takes kindly to labels."

I sat down at the table.

"What made you think that I might have Asperger's?" I asked, curious.

"On the first day we met at Bart's you told Molly that her lips looked too small without lipstick."

"And they did."

"I had heard that people with Asperger's prefer to look at a person's lips over their eyes. After all the mouth is where communication comes from. Plus, I had the impression that your intention was not to be rude, but to point out to Molly that she looked better with lipstick."

"Was that rude? I was trying to help her."

"Yeah, it was rude. She was upset."

"I hadn't noticed," I said, lightly. Why should she be upset over such a small thing?

"No," John agreed. "So, that was my third reason for thinking that you have Asperger's. There were other reasons which came after that. But, those were the first."

We sat in silence for a moment. In one way I was pleased that John had deduced in his own way that I have Asperger's. But, I wasn't sure if it would make things better or more awkward between us.

"So, about what happened yesterday," John said, eventually. I stiffened, not wanting to think about it. "It was a meltdown?"

"Yes."

"Are they always that bad?" John looked nervous.

I considered his face. This could be the way to push John away, by exaggerating the intensity of my meltdowns. But, at the same time I didn't want John to think of me as some sort of uncontrollable monster. Plus, John had handled things so well yesterday that I was slightly impressed. John deserved a truthful explanation for that.

"No," I said, eventually. I narrowed his eyes at John. "I lost control of myself and I didn't choose to have one, if that's what you're thinking."

"I didn't think that," John said quietly. "So, what set you off?"

"You."

"Me?" John raised an eyebrow. He didn't look offended, more curious.

"And this," I gestured around the flat. I sighed, I didn't want to have to admit this but I needed to. "I don't like change very much. And I've never had a flatmate before. It's all new territory for me."

"And it's all been stressing you out?"

"Apparently."

John sat back, looking thoughtful. "Anything I can do to help?"

I looked at my bandaged hand. "You helped me yesterday. It was, uh, good. Those things you did. Closing the curtains and not touching me."

"I almost did," John admitted. "I stopped myself at the last second when it suddenly occurred to me that if you did have Asperger's like I suspected, touching you would be the last thing you needed."

"Hmm," I hummed. I was tired of the conversation by now and wandered over to the sofa, carefully moved my violin to safe place, before throwing myself down on the cushions.

John followed me, sitting down in the armchair.

"Couldn't you get a flat by yourself?" John asked.

I winced. His voice was starting to grate on me. He always a spoke a little too loudly and I could feel the vibration in my ears. Besides, I was tired of explaining myself to him. It's never easy for me to having admit to having Asperger's and then trying to explain what it is and how it affects me. I wanted a break from talking.

John wanted to keep on talking.

"If you're thinking that this flat share is not working then I need to know as soon as possible so that I can decide on what to do," John said, in a low voice. "What would you do if we went our separate ways?"

I glanced at him. He had lowered his voice again; he must have observed me wincing. He was trying to be kind to me.

"I could get a single flat for a short while," I replied, with some effort. My voice sounded slightly stiff, forced. "But, it's been over three months since I was last paid by a client, so my savings will soon run out; that means either means going grovelling to my parents or to Mycroft for help. And proving them right," I added, bitterly.

"Proving them right about what?"

He was dragging me back into the swing of conversation. It worked.

"Mycroft says that I'm too "socially naïve" to be truly independent," I said, sitting up. "And my mother says that I am far too immature and irresponsible when it comes to money."

John smiled. "Yeah, I can imagine. What does that make me by the way? Proof that you can survive all on your own in the big bad world, with a job, steady income, flat and flatmate."

"Exactly."

John ran a hand through his hair, thinking.

"Then you have a choice," he said, voice still wonderfully low and steady. "We can keep this flat and you can prove your independence. Or we can both move out, neither of us being able to afford it on our own. I would have to leave London altogether, which means that I wouldn't be able to be your assistant on other cases. And you would have to ask your brother for financial support because I suspect that your mother is right about you: immature and irresponsible with money."

"True. I don't even have a credit card."

John's eyes widened at this.

"O-kaayy," he said. "You should really get one. It would make life easier."

"You think so?"

"Yes, Sherlock, I do. But, if money management is not on your list of priorities, then that's something I could help you with. I mean, if you want me to and if you trust me."

I flopped back on the sofa, eyes closed. My brain was crying out for silence. John had given me too much to process, if that is possible. Amazingly, John backed off at that point. He walked away and sat down at his desk, opening up his laptop.

I would never find another person who could read me as easily as John read me, or anyone more understanding. He just seemed to know when I was about to reach breaking point and would always give me the appropriate time and space to calm down.

Later that evening I told John that I wanted to carry on sharing the flat with him. He nodded and that was the end of the matter.

It still took me a little time to adjust to my new home, but after that I couldn't imagine wanting to live anywhere else.

_A/N: I'm sorry that it's been a while since I last updated._

_I also apologise for this chapter. In the Empathy chapter I set it a month after they had first met and I can't remember if at that point I had John knowing about Sherlock's Asperger's. So, sorry if I got that wrong._

_But, it's basically similar to my Study In Senses story. I tried to make it different, although I think Study In Senses is better. But, that's just me. _

_Also, Sherlock's credit card. It gets mentioned in the Blind Banker and he seems happy to share it with John. I imagine that he's quite pleased with himself for finally getting one. _

_I'm a little nervous about this chapter. I hope that it's clear that meltdowns are different for each individual and people can't really control what they do, although as adults they may learn to recognise the signs. Sherlock's was an unusually bad one and one I made overly-dramatic because it's a story :P_

_Thank you to everyone for reading, reviewing and following this story! I am grateful to your support. And have a good, good Easter!_


	19. Intellectual Crush

_I don't own Sherlock or YouTube_

An Intellectual Crush

Mary Morstan had been a client of Sherlock's.

She had been in the sense that the case she had brought to Sherlock was now well and truly solved. Normally, Sherlock had little to no interest in his clients; they were simply the people who brought him mysteries to solve and that's where their importance began and ended. At the end of each case he left it to John to tie up any loose ends with the client, explaining the solution and chasing up money, that sort of thing. Sherlock never bothered to involve himself in this process; apart from in the case of the Blind Banker, where Sherlock returned to the bank to inform the sectary that she was wearing a jade hairpin worth £1 million, enjoying her reaction. But, this time was different.

Mary Morstan was a professional violinist, who made instructional videos on YouTube in her spare time. Apparently Sherlock was a fan and was immediately recognised her when she walked into Baker Street. John could see that Sherlock was itching to ask her some questions about music, but put it off to hear her case.

Mary had come to Sherlock claiming that not only had her father been murdered by a bearded one-legged one, sporting a poison blow pipe, but also that the murderer had stolen a box her father kept hidden in his study.

The only thing which Sherlock found strange about her story was that the murderer had used his fake leg to beat her father to death, instead of the convenient poison blow pipe. John, on the other hand, would have found the whole case strange, if he had not been distracted by how attractive he found Mary Morstan.

Sherlock quickly discovered that Small had known that the box contained several small pearls which Mary's father had stolen from Small, who had stolen them in the first place from India.

The case was brought to a conclusion after they had caught Jonathan Small after a thrilling boat chase down the Thames and Sherlock was still buzzing.

"Thank you, Jonathan Small!" He crowed, as Lestrade escorted the criminal off the police boat and onto the jetty. "This has been my best birthday ever!"

John frowned. "But, it's not your birthday. It's my birthday!"

"We share birthdays now."

"Yeah, and it was almost _our_ last," John muttered, absently plucking the poison dart from Sherlock's left coat sleeve. The detective had been incredibly lucky that the dart had failed to penetrate through the heavy coat. There were several other darts dotted here and there across the boat.

"And it would have been the best one," Sherlock said, still grinning. "Don't pretend that you weren't having fun."

"No, I wasn't," John insisted. Then a smile broke through on his face, turning into a grin. "Okay, maybe I was then!"

"Hah! Told you!" Sherlock laughed. He leapt over the side of the boat, covering the gap between the boat and the jetty, landing neatly on solid ground. He started yelling at Jonathan Small some more. "I am both grateful and annoyed that you thought that your idiotic plan could fool me! But, it's been fun, so thank you!"

John shook his head, as he chose the way back to dry ground via the more conventional method of stepping cautiously off the bobbing vessel, whilst hoping that he did not look too much of an idiot. Sherlock was positively hyperactive today.

"Come on, John! We have to go see the client!" he yelled, impatiently.

oooooooooooo

John was also interested in seeing Mary again. But, he was a little surprised that Sherlock was so keen to see her again. But, it was the first time he had seen his friend reaching out to someone, so for once John decided to take a step back. It would be odd if Sherlock and Mary ended up dating, but who was he to judge.

But, before they got to Mary's apartment, Sherlock instructed the taxi driver to turn into Baker Street and wait for him to pick something up. Moments later he jumped back into the cab, grasping his battered violin case.

John raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

At Mary's apartment John did his best to give Mary an overview of the case, but neither she or Sherlock had the slightest interest in what he was saying.

"I'm glad you brought your violin, Sherlock," Mary smiled.

"My pleasure," Sherlock said, undoing the clasps. "Take a look."

"Are you sure?"

"Go ahead. My Grandfather always intended for it to played by someone who actually knows what they are doing."

"I'm sorry about your pearls, Mary," John said, loudly. "They'll be able to drag the Thames for them, but seeing as your father knew that they were stolen in the first place, they'll be returned to India."

"What a beautiful instrument. And according to John's blog you play beautifully and I am inclined to believe it," Mary said to Sherlock, turning the instrument over in her hands. "It is an interesting shape. The neck is a little longer than average, but the body is normal."

"Yes. It is exactly an inch longer," Sherlock nodded. "He experimented a lot and he did have long arms."

"You've just lost out on a lot of money," John tried to say, but was mostly ignored.

Mary and Sherlock were talking animatedly about music and violins. John was left feeling a little awkward left between them. In the end he gave up and announced that he needed to get back to the flat. Mary showed him to the door and handed him his coat. John felt as though he was being thrown out.

He just hoped that Sherlock knew what he was doing. Most likely he didn't.

It always bothered John a little that he saw Sherlock as being close to vulnerable when it came to the issue of romantic relationships. The man had a hard enough time understanding the rules of friendship; dating someone was an entirely different ball game.

oooooooooo

It was late by the time Sherlock returned to 221B, humming as he swung his violin case back and forth in one hand and held his mobile in his other.

"Had a nice little chat, did you?" John asked.

"With whom?" Sherlock asked, distractedly as he stared at his phone.

"Mary Morstan."

"Who?"

"Your client."

"I don't have a client."

"You did six hours ago. You were talking to her about music."

"Oh, her," Sherlock sniffed. Suddenly he brightened up. "She has some interesting ideas about bowing techniques. She's tried things I would never think of. Like swapping over the bow and the violin, so that you hold them in different hands. When I tried it everything sounded awful, when she does it, it sounds amazing."

"I see," John smirked. "I think that you have a little crush on Miss Mary."

"A what?"

"You know - you fancy her. You want to go out with her and spend time with her."

"No, I don't!" Sherlock looked horrified.

"Don't be embarrassed," John grinned. "It's nice that you like someone. I mean, she was very nice. She seemed very kind, very pretty."

Sherlock continued to type rapidly on his mobile. "You're projecting."

"What?"

"You're projecting your feelings of attraction to Mary Morstan onto me. You think that just because talking to a woman intently means that _you_ are attracted to her the same rule must apply me also. It does not. I am able to talk to people without trying to lure them into bed."

"I don't lure them!" John retorted, turning red.

"You did glance at her breasts more than once though."

John flipped through a magazine. "Because, despite what people think, I am a heterosexual male. A bloke. I can't help but look occasionally. It just happens. Especially when they wear low-cut tops." He looked over the top of his magazine. "Don't you ever look sometimes?"

"At what?"

"You know what. I mean, you are a man. It's in your biology."

"I forget that sometimes."

"Forget what?"

"That I am a man."

John laughed. Sherlock threw him a look.

"Sorry," John apologised. "I don't really understand though. Do you just consider yourself to be…I don't know. Explain?"

"I am male biologically. But, inside my own head I am a computer. Genderless. There are many physical differences between males and females, but all other differences are a result of what society expects us to be. Fulfilling those expectations shouldn't be so be important to people, but they are. For that reason I also choose to conform to some extent just to make my life a little easier." He frowned, looking up. "Does that suggest a weakness in character to you?"

John thought about it. "That depends on what you mean by saying that you conform."

"I dress in male clothes."

"And would you prefer to -" John swallowed. If Sherlock started wearing women's clothes thanks to him, he would never forgive himself. "Wear other things?"

"No. I like my clothes. They force people to take me more seriously. And they're comfy."

John heaved a silent sigh of relief.

"Good," he said. "In that case, I'd say you're following your own personal preference for clothing, social pressure aside, and it's not a flaw in your personality."

Sherlock grunted in reply and went back to his phone.

ooooooooo

Sherlock continued to go to Mary everyday that week, taking his violin with him. He would return home hours later lecturing John about Mary's theories about different types of music. John couldn't really follow, they were far too technical. But, it made John feel a little uneasy that Sherlock seemed to have more interest in Mary's ideas about music than the woman herself.

He decided that he best seek a second opinion about the matter.

John met Lestrade in the pub, and explained about Sherlock and Mary.

"That's nice," said Greg, taking a grateful sip of the pint John had brought for him.

"Yeah, but he's not actually interested in her. More her violin skills," replied John, pushing his glass back and fourth on the counter with his forefinger.

"Sounds like he's got…"Greg shrugged trying to recall the term he had once heard. "An intellectual crush on her. Fancies her mind, not her body or personality. Look, we both know that Sherlock is an a-sexual. A sexual relationship is not something that he's ever chased after. But, it could be that be that he idolises intellect. He values brain above body; hence, an intellectual crush."

"Is that possible?"

"I think so. Lucy says that Sherlock has a sexy brain. Likes how he works things out."

John looked carefully at Lestrade. He was sure that there should have been at least a hint of bitterness in that statement, but apparently Greg was fine with them seeing each other.

"Don't you get you jealous of how often Sherlock and Lucy see each other nowadays? I mean, I found them watching Star Trek in the flat together yesterday."

Greg shrugged again.

"I was a little jealous at first. But, the more times I see them together the more I realise that's a purely platonic friendship. Well, actually, it's more like seeing a professor with his pupil. It's Sherlock's ability to observe and deduce that fascinates Lucy and he's been teaching her the tricks of the trade. I'm not sure to be afraid or not because she's very good at it. I'm just glad Lucy is getting out more. Even if it is just to Baker Street. What's that new phrase? Brainy is the new sexy. How true for Sherlock and Lucy."

"Yeah, but what about Mary?" said John. "Sherlock has been seeing her everyday to improve his violin techniques. And it won't be long before he gets bored or decides that he's learnt everything he can from her and just stops seeing her. She will be hurt if she thought that he fancied her."

"Mary can probably tell that he's doesn't fancy her. It may look that way to someone watching from the outside, but it's probably clear to her. I mean, look at you and Sherlock."

"What do you mean?" John asked, indigently.

"To the outside world there are times when you look like a close couple, but you know that Sherlock is not in love with you. You just know." Greg suddenly grinned. "Anyway, why don't you explain things to Mary? You fancy her, don't you?"

"What makes you think that?"

"Because you're John Watson. It saves time to just assume that you fancy every woman you meet." The Inspector drained away the last drops of his pint and looked at his watch. "I'd better go. See you."

"Yeah, thanks," John mumbled. "See you."

oooooooooo

When he retuned to 221B that evening he found Sherlock sprawled out across the sofa.

"I'm not stopping," John said. "I just came to get my phone. I left it behind when I went to the pub -"

"As I can smell."

"I'm going to see Mary, actually, if you want to tag along."

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Because you've been going to see her everyday this week."

"Not anymore. There's nothing new she can teach me."

"Right. Okay." John knew that he had been right in his theory. Sherlock had become bored with her. "So, you wouldn't mind if I asked Mary out then?"

"Why would I possibly mind?"

"I'll take that as a no then."

ooooooooo

John went straight to Mary's apartment. When she opened the door to him he noticed straight away that she had her hair cut, and it suited her. What was even better was that she seemed very pleased to see him.

Mary ushered him into the sitting room and invited him to sit down on the sofa, sitting next to him.

"Sherlock didn't show up today," she said, with a hint of sadness. "How come?"

"Um…," John said, desperately trying to think of someway to explain without patronising either Mary or Sherlock. "The thing is about Sherlock is that he really loved your ideas about music, but now thinks that you have taught him everything that he wanted to know."

"Oh."

"I hope that Sherlock hasn't…offended you," John said, awkwardly. "I mean, if he made you think that he fancied you. Which is entirely plausible given that you are a very attractive woman! But, he can be very - very -"

"It's fine," Mary smiled. "He just wanted to talk about music that's all."

"I know, but most of the time he can be arrogant even when he doesn't mean to be."

"No, I liked him. He was very friendly."

"Oh. Really?"

"Yes, he's really sweet!"

John snorted. "Sorry. That's the first time I have heard him being described as sweet."

"You don't think so then?"

John decided to avoid the question. "Anyway, I'm glad."

"About what?"

"That you knew that Sherlock only wanted to talk about music. Because it means that I can ask you if you want to go out somewhere with me tonight. If you want to."

"In that case, I'm glad too. I like Sherlock. But, I like you even more, John."

John kissed Mary. Inside he was thrilled. Not just for himself, but he had finally found a woman who liked Sherlock! There might just be hope for them as a couple.

_A/N: I apologise for this one; I struggled with it, mainly because I know nothing about violins or music. So, sorry. Also, everything to do with Small and the pearls comes from the 2__nd__ Sherlock Holmes novel: The Sign of the Four. It's a fun story, a bit underrated, I think. But, in it Holmes' world really expands from the first novel. It introduces Holmes' drug addiction, Mary Morstan, Toby the dog, the Baker Street Irregulars (I think?) and ends with a boat chase down the Thames with Inspector Athelney Jones. Watson gets engaged to Mary and it has Holmes going gooey-eyes over Toby, calling him, "Doggy." It's a fun story, so read it if you can._

_As always thank you all so much for reading, reviewing, following and favouriting these stories. I'm so grateful. _

_Dialogue I should have put in:_

_Mary: I believe that my father was beaten to death by a man with an artificial leg, named Small._

_Sherlock and John: And what was the name of his other leg?_

_Mary:….not impressed._


	20. Procrastination

_I don't own Sherlock_

Procrastination

When something is not worth doing then how do you work up the motivation to even start?

Lately, fans of John's blog have been pressurising him to ask me to write up one of our cases in his place. So, last Friday he finally succumbed to that pressure and promised his avid reader that he would ask.

But, he did not ask so much as told me that I would be doing it. But, I suppose that it is a good idea for me to write up at least one case. I am the reason that John's blog is so popular in the first place.

When I consider something worth doing then I am full of enthusiasm; I rarely slow down. But, ask me to complete a project which I _know_ will start out less than perfect, I find it difficult to begin.

I am certainly a better writer than John - if John was a writer of scientific textbooks. But, according to his 1895 followers, John is somewhat talented in the area of actual storytelling, describing events in an overly dramatic and, apparently, gripping manner. In that way, his ability as a writer exceeds my own.

I would never admit that out loud.

If I do finally write up a case then it would be written as an analytical study of the science of deduction. As they should all be written. And not as a means for John to complain about my shortcomings in one sentence and gush admiration in another.

I imagine that people will compare and comment on these different styles. It all seems so pointless and probably not worth my time.

Writing a blog entry can fall into the same box as all the other meaningless activities which surround my life: cleaning the house (that is what Mrs Hudson is for), keeping the accounts (John enjoys doing that), and shopping (John really enjoys shopping).

No, if John wants me to write up a case then he will have to keep on nagging and I will keep putting it off for the future, because I'm sure that John will find a way to force me to in the end.

_A/N: Ugh. My apologies for this short, boring chapter. I'm trying to get back into the routine of writing regularly. Procrastination seemed an appropriate topic to write about. I also apologise for any mistakes in this one._

_Thank you for reading, reviewing, following and favouriting this fic, everyone! I am truly grateful for all of your support._


	21. Animals

_I don't own Sherlock_

Animals

It always frustrated John a little bit that Sherlock refused to exercise for exercises' sake. He saw it as a waste of energy and when in between cases he would only move between his bed, the kitchen table and the sofa. He would only stand up for any length of time to play his violin. At least there was no risk of him becoming overweight, he ate so little. In fact, John would have been relieved if Sherlock did put on a pound or two.

But, during one of these empty periods during early autumn John managed to persuade Sherlock to go for a walk with him in Hyde Park. John had felt a little odd asking Sherlock, but he was desperate to get Sherlock outside. It had been two weeks since the last case and Sherlock had spent the last two days just lying on his back staring up at the ceiling. John suspected that Sherlock had said yes because he was also starting to become desperate for some form of distraction.

The Park looked beautiful with so many orange, brown, yellow and red leaves scattering the paths from the horse chestnut and oak trees.

About forty minutes into their walk they heard the rhythmic pounding of horse hooves on the damp ground. A second later a woman riding a large chestnut horse came cantering around the corner.

She grinned at them as Sherlock grabbed John's collar and yanked him out of the horse's path.

"You're reactions are terrible," Sherlock complained. "It's no wonder you were shot in Afghanistan. Or were you just too busy staring at the rider?"

"Says the man who almost crashed us into rock out on Dartmoor," John retorted.

"That argument would work if you had only been _almost_ shot, instead of _actually_ -"

They were interrupted by a yell from the rider. She had made it some way down the path, but now she had slowed and her horse appeared to be wobbling from side to side. There was a mess from where the horse had lost control of it's bowels.

Suddenly, the horse dropped onto his knees, panting heavily.

Sherlock and John ran over to help.

"Rowan!" the woman cried. She managed to dismount before the chestnut horse rolled onto his side. She moved back as the horse's limbs flailed feebly. It's eyes were wide with panic and sweat was dripping down it's side.

"Are you alright?" John asked the rider. "What's happening?"

"I-I don't know," the woman stammered. "Everything was fine seconds ago."

"John!" Sherlock shouted.

John was a little surprised to see Sherlock kneeling by the horse's head, one hand on it's neck.

"John, I think Rowan's having a stroke." Sherlock looked directly at the woman. "You need your instructor to call a vet."

"My instructor?" the woman wavered.

"You're too inexperienced to be out riding on your own, but too overly confident to stay near to your instructor. You rode on ahead and now you can run back. Hurry up!"

The woman hesitated, eyes lingering on her fallen horse.

"Don't worry," John assured her. "Your instructor has probably almost caught up by now. And I'm a doctor. I'll see what I can do."

The woman nodded and charged off back down the path.

John joined Sherlock by Rowan, who wheezing heavily, eyes rolling.

"I don't know what I can do to help," John said.

Sherlock still had his hand on the horse's neck and was staring down intently at it. He was making soft, murmuring sounds, trying to calm Rowan down. It seemed to work as Rowan stopped failing, directing his gaze up towards Sherlock. He instinctively knew that he could trust Sherlock.

John held his silence. He could see straight away that there was connection between the horse and his friend, and he did not want to unintentionally break it by saying something stupid.

Rowan was looking at Sherlock with a gaze of absolute trust, while Sherlock's face was displaying little emotion John could tell that he was upset.

"John," Sherlock whispered.

John hadn't noticed, but Rowan had become very still, his eyes glazed over.

There was a clattering of hooves and an older man on a grey horse slowed to a stop. He quickly dismounted.

"I've called for a vet. Sarah will catch up in a minute." The man spoke quickly, but his speech came to an abrupt halt when he looked down at Rowan.

John saw Sherlock run his hand down the length of the horse's neck. It was done in a surprising tender fashion. As Sherlock stood up John could see that his eyes were wet. A few harsh blinks and they were gone.

He turned swiftly on his heel and began to walk quickly away.

"Come on, John!" he snapped. "We're not needed now!"

"Wait a minute!" The instructor called.

"Do you need us for anything?" John asked. "Sarah will be able to tell you when Rowan collapsed. We stayed with him, but there was nothing much to do. He died about a minute ago." He fired off this information quickly aware that Sherlock was getting further away. "I'd better get after him."

The instructor nodded. "Thank you."

Ooooooooooooooo

A week later and John was still worrying over how dispirited Sherlock appeared to be. He had been stunned at how upset Sherlock was over seeing Rowan die. His friend had never shown any signs of sadness over the countless human corpses he had seen, no matter how tragic the circumstances were; he had displayed almost no sympathy in the face of another person's death. But, witnessing a horse, he didn't even know, die had made Sherlock Holmes cry, just a little bit.

However, John received an email from the riding school to which Rowan had belonged. The instructor had recognised who they were and wanted to thank them for their help by offering them a free lesson. John decided to ignore the fact that the email specifically stated that they gave lessons for couples.

"Do you want to have a go?" he asked Sherlock.

"No," the man replied from the sofa.

"Oh, come on. I doubt that they would have offered us a free lesson if they hadn't recognised our photo from the paper. You might as well take advantage of it."

Sherlock looked suspicious. "Me? Not us, then."

"I don't mix well with horses," John smiled. "And because there's no way that I'm going to add to the gossip about us by going riding in the Park with you."

"I'm _not _going to go riding in the Park!" Sherlock huffed, rolling onto his side.

"Fine," John shrugged. "But, I'm not the one who is lying bored stiff on the sofa all day long. It would give you something to do and I know that you would be really good at it."

Sherlock ignored him.

"You know it is possible to die of boredom," John said, loudly. "Indirectly, I mean. People become so bored that they go mad. That's after they've turned stupid with boredom. If you don't exercise your intellect you will loose it eventually."

Sherlock turned to face him, glaring. "Are you just keep on chatting away?"

"Yes," John nodded. "You know that I can talk for hours at a time. The weather today is pretty interesting. Well, I say interesting, it's just overcast. A sort of grey all over."

"Fine! Fine!" Sherlock yelled, stomping off to his bedroom. "I will have one lesson, but that's all! Anything to make you shut up!"

John opened up his email to send a reply back to the riding school. He was smirking.

Oooooooooo

Sherlock wouldn't tell John how his lesson had gone. But, John could see that the detective had enjoyed it, even if he wouldn't admit it. There was something a little bit more peaceful about Sherlock when he returned home, flopping down on the sofa, hands pressed together.

"Will you go again?" John asked.

Sherlock grunted, but John took that as a yes.

Even long after Sherlock had retired in the future, he continued to go horse riding out in the countryside, eventually owning his own horse. He never lost his gift of being able to empathise so easily with animals and would occasionally force John to go riding with him, during John's many visits to him out in Sussex. John never really got past the stage of beginner, but Sherlock would prove to be a good teacher.

_A/N: Thank you so much, everyone, for reading, reviewing, favouriting and following! I am humbled by your support. _

_I apologise - I don't know much about horses, but they can have strokes apparently. _

_This is chapter is mainly set in Hyde Park because there is a riding school near to it, which uses the Park frequently. _

_Thank you again!_


	22. Theory of Mind

_I don't own Sherlock_

The Theory Of Mind

_From the Blog Notes of John Watson:_

I would like to write a blog post about Theory of Mind, or ToM for short.

ToM is a psychological term referring to an individual's ability to "read" another person, being able to understand and recognise the thoughts and emotions of another person, allowing them to understand that person's behaviour and predict what they will do next.

I wanted to write about this because sometimes I suspect that Sherlock has delayed ToM abilities. This sometimes gives the impression that Sherlock is deliberately being cold or rude, when that is not his intention. (Although, he can often be mean just for the sake of it, especially to people he doesn't like. )

For example, over Christmas when he was deducing Molly's Christmas present and made the comment about the size of her breasts. Everyone else could see Molly was getting upset and everyone else knew that the present was for him, but Sherlock failed to pick up on any of those social cues. It was like watching someone driving a car at over a hundred miles an hour and failing to see any of the warning signs that he was about to drive over a cliff.

But, I like to think that at least the two of us smash the myth that people with Asperger's are unable to lie, while Neurotypicals are very good at it.

I am a terrible liar. Totally incapable of deception, according to Sherlock; which is the reason he always gives when he feels the need to deceive _me _in order to carry out one of his plans to catch a criminal. Or to successfully fake his own death.

"I couldn't tell you that I was alive, John, because your concern for me would have inadvertently led to you revealing to our enemies that I was alive and hiding out in Europe. And if I hadn't done so then your life, Mrs Hudson's and Lestrade's would have been in danger. So, I had to trick you. There was no other way."

Those words still hurt me now, but deep down I know that Sherlock was right. I have always worn my heart on my sleeve for all to see and I was never able to act in any school play I ended up in. The world had to be convinced that Sherlock Holmes was dead and I needed to be seen grieving. I could not have faked that no matter how hard I tried.

Conversely, there was one time when I did lie to Sherlock. I still regret doing so, but I did it with the best of intentions.

Mycroft Holmes had just informed me that Irene Adler had been executed by a terrorist group and was most defiantly dead. We had both seen how Sherlock had reacted the first time we thought her to be dead and Mycroft did not want to see his brother go through that experience a second time. So, Mycroft suggested that I tell Sherlock that Irene was on a witness protection program out in America. I wasn't so sure about lying to my best friend (partly because of morals and partly because of my inability to lie) and was still trying to make my mind up as I walked up the seventeen steps to our flat.

Sherlock was sitting hunched over his microscope. I told him that I had just spoken to Mycroft.

"It's about Irene Adler," I said, hesitantly.

Sherlock looked up immediately.

"Well, what is it? Has she come back?" he asked.

"She's, uh…she's in America," I smiled. I smiled because I was nervous and because my voice sounded so fake. Sherlock was standing right in front of me. I could see his eyes scanning across my face, trying to read me.

I know that Sherlock has very strong ToM abilities, that makes him to appear to answer intuitively. I know that he relies on his powers of observation and deduction to work out what people are thinking, feeling and what their intentions are. But, sometimes it fails him.

I know him better than anyone and I can always tell when it is taking him a little longer than usual to read a person. I have noticed the delay during times of stress or when there are too many people around. It is most noticeable during his periods of Post-Case Crash, when he is simply too tired to process social and emotional cues quickly. That's how it felt then, like he was having trouble reading me.

"America?" he asked, sounding a little surprised.

I felt terrible at that point because Sherlock believed me when I was obviously lying. I was taking advantage of my friend's weakness. I am sure that Mycroft wanted me to be the one to tell Sherlock that Irene was in America because normally I would never even bother attempting to lie to Sherlock. He trusts me.

Of course, years later I found out that Irene Adler was alive and well, having been rescued by Sherlock himself. But, Sherlock assured me that if he hadn't been the one to save Irene then he would have been completely taken in by my lie. I assume he was trying to make me feel better, but I doubt that it was true. Sherlock may rely more on intellectual analysis to use his ToM skills, but I think that he could also use them instinctively to some extent.

From what I know, ToM really is a skill which means that all people, autistic or not, are on a scale of being extremely competent in their ToM abilities, to not at all. Also, being a skill means that people can learn, whether they use mental calculations and memory, like Sherlock, or use their intuition, like myself. More likely, people will use a mixture of both depending on the complexity of the situation.

_A/N: I apologise for the slapdash nature of this one-shot. I really wanted to write about ToM and decided that I would do a few chapters about it because it has such a big impact on people's daily lives. The difficulty I had was trying to find a way to explain what ToM is clearly with a story to illustrate it. It is really obvious that I didn't know how to end this one, but please bear with me, there will be other chapters about it and hopefully I will do a better job of it. _

_As always thank you for all your support, everyone. I never thought that I would have so many followers and reviews and I am so grateful._


	23. The Woman

_A higher rating for this one for sex references to be on the safe side. Nothing explicit. _

_I don't own Sherlock. _

The Woman

Eirene Edith had been following the career of the London Consulting Detective very closely; she had been especially intrigued when her old acquaintance, Jim Moriarty, had allowed himself to be arrested and that her detective would be appearing in court as an expert witness. It had made her smile to see that the detective had been held in contempt of court, but she was also worried on his behalf. Jim Moriarty was clearly out to get Sherlock Holmes. Why could no one see that?

She had read Sherlock's life story online and read it with a great deal of interest because it was exactly how she had imagined his childhood to be; the article also declared the man to be a fake genius and a conman, which made her snort and wondered how people could believe it.

The next day she had read in the New York newspapers of Sherlock's suicide. She had spent the day on the sofa watching the news reports; they had little sympathy for Sherlock's family and friends and seemed intent on tearing apart the tattered remains of his reputation. Witnesses were coming forward, airing their doubts loudly and courts of inquiry were set up in order to grill the Scotland Yard officers who allowed the "psychopath" access to crime scenes and classified information. It was said that the whole mess would take years to untangle, to find out what had real and what had been faked by Sherlock.

But, on Sherlock's side, old clients ranging right across the social class spectrum, from the homeless to millionaire bankers to minor aristocracy, were defending the dead man's reputation. Fans of John Watson's blog were also joining the campaign in their thousands. Yet, despite their numbers and regardless of any influence or power they held, their protests were ignored against the evidence found against him, such as his confession to John Watson in their final conversation. Not that John Watson had believed it.

Eirene knew that the Royal Family owed Sherlock Holmes a massive favour and if they chose to side with the I Believe In Sherlock Holmes group, then just maybe Moriarty would not win in the end as he had planned.

Moriarty had obviously driven Sherlock to jumping off the roof of St Bart's, Eirene reasoned. It had to be something to do with the safety of John Watson because no matter how much the good doctor had protested it, they had been a couple.

But, none of that really mattered anymore because the only man Irene Adler had found to be truly fascinating was now dead.

Unless he had faked it, just as she had fake hers.

_Are you copying me? You bad boy, _she thought as she blinked away a few rogue tears. It was silly to cry. But, then Sherlock had been heartbroken according to John after her "body" had been found.

"He's writing sad music," John had exclaimed, searching around the empty power station for Mycroft Holmes, the person he was expecting to see there. "Doesn't eat. Barely talks, except to correct the television. I'd say he's heartbroken. But, he's Sherlock. He does all that….anyway…"

Maybe it was just her turn to be heartbroken, if that was what she feeling.

But, however she was truly feeling, Irene took a big risk of pulling in a few favours and getting herself back to England in time for the funeral.

There was no service, just the task of placing the coffin into the ground. A small handful of people attended, but there was plenty of media interest and a strong police presence about as people either cried or cheered and cursed.

Irene couldn't get close enough to determine if it was all just a magic trick, or real. So, she went back home to her home and carried on with her life, living as Eirene Edith, half expecting that one day Sherlock Holmes would suddenly show up again.

Ooooooooo

It had almost been three years since Sherlock's death and Irene had given up on him. But, life was good in a way. She was still living as Eirene Edith in the middle of New York, running a fashionable floristry business called Desire, which supplied flowers to important social functions. She also supplied "personal" favours to clients if they were willing to pay for it, but that business was kept strictly out of the public eye. She had the odd girlfriend, but never very often and they never stuck around for long. No one really interested her that much.

One night in the middle of February, Irene returned to her penthouse flat after attending a engagement party of a moderately famous actor, and found Sherlock Holmes crashed out on the sofa.

She didn't recognise him at first. Flicking on the light switch she had jumped to see a man fast asleep on the cushions and wondered how on earth he had got past all her security measures. That interested her. She also quickly wrote off him being a burglar.

Instead, she felt her shoulders tense as a teasing thought told that it could possibly be him.

He had his head turned away from her towards the cushions and had light brown hair which was straight and not curly. She could see the black arm of a pair glasses poking out from behind his ear. He was dressed in a worn pair of jeans and a thin jacket. A rucksack lay just of his reach, having been dropped roughly to the floor.

Irene lent over him, looking down. She had seen Sherlock asleep before, when she had broken into his bedroom at Baker Street to return his coat. She carefully reached down and lifted the glasses away from his face, and just as she had done before at Baker Street, kissed his cheek in a way that would leave a faint lipstick imprint.

He woke up three hours later, blinking groggily at Irene. She was sitting on the other side of the living room where she had been watching him. It was now around four in the morning, but she had been reluctant to go to sleep herself, preferring to appear to wide awake and alert in contrast to his sleepiness; she had to gain the upper hand, especially as he had broken into her supposedly impenetrable flat.

"You slept like the dead," she said lightly. "Tea? Coffee?"

"Coffee," Sherlock yawned, throwing back the blanket Irene had draped over him.

"Of course." Irene bustled into the kitchen. "As much as I love America and her people, they still seem unable to manage a proper blend of tea. It's better to go without and then be reminded of what you can't have. You must have missed Earl Grey, what with travelling around Japan, hiking up the Himalayas and sketching Mountain Gorillas in Uganda. You have a wonderful eye for detail, by the way."

"I went to other places too," said Sherlock, accepting the mug from Irene. "I hope you put back everything properly."

"I did," replied Irene, settling herself on the sofa beside Sherlock. "Which was a little bit different to how you packed your suitcase. It looked as though the Tasmanian Devil had thrown everything in for you."

Sherlock frowned, ignoring the pop-culture reference he didn't understand. "Everything had it's proper place."

"If you will leave your case in my bedroom…"

"Because I knew that you would want to have a shufti."

Irene raised her eyebrow at the unexpected use of slang, but didn't bother to comment on it. She was a little tired of the dance they were performing together, bantering and acting clever to avoid asking the real questions.

She could see that Sherlock was tired too. There were dark purple smears under his eyes and there was small scar on his left cheek now. As he shuffled off his jacket Irene could make out the bulge of a bandage over his left shoulder, a wound still healing.

"Why did you disappear?" she asked, staring straight ahead at the wall.

"Moriarty's people had been given instructions that if I wasn't seen jumping off Bart's roof then they were to assassinate John, Mrs Hudson and D.I Lestrade," Sherlock replied simply.

Irene nodded, glad that her suspicions had been correct.

"Moriarty had shot himself in the head, so there was no chance of me persuading him to recall his snipers. So, I had to fake my suicide and go into hiding until Mycroft's people could round up his followers."

Irene nodded again. She walked over to the window, peeking through the curtains down onto the streets below. "That would explain why things have started to relax around here," she said. "I've been watching my back all these years in case Jim would find me again. But, recently my friends have reported an almost complete absence of Jim's known spies. I assumed that he was expecting me to relax and catch me off guard, or to even try running away again and find me on the move. Instead, I've been working even harder lately to accumulate favours from friends in high places. I've never felt safer."

"Didn't you know he was dead? It was widely reported through the media."

"Yes, and it was reported that you were the one to have shot him," replied Irene, rejoining Sherlock on the sofa, folding her legs up underneath herself. "Although, strangely your fingerprints were not found on the gun."

She smiled at Sherlock, he didn't smile back. But, then he rarely mirrored another person's expression Irene had noticed. Instead he looked a little confused as why she was smiling. That bothered Irene a little bit; from when she had first met Sherlock she had felt strongly in-tune and in-sync with him, but things were not running as smoothly anymore. His conversation had an off-beat feel to it, slow and slightly clunky. Maybe they had been apart for far too long. Maybe he was still tired. She had other questions to ask, but they could wait.

Irene studied Sherlock's face some more. He was still just as handsome and his eyes, though staring into space, appeared to be fizzing with so many intelligent thoughts. Now that he had taken his jacket off his arms were bare below the elbow and Irene could see that his muscles had grown slightly. She could smell the fresh air on him, however fresh New York air could be.

Irene wondered if she was in love with Sherlock Holmes. More likely it was just lust, rather than a romantic attraction.

"So, if Moriarty's gang has all been captured by Big Brother, you'll be going home soon?" she asked.

"Yes," Sherlock nodded, continually bouncing his right foot off the carpet. "I'm just waiting for Mycroft to contact to me and then I'll get on the first plane back to London."

Irene arched an eyebrow. "And you were hoping that I would just allow you to stay with me while you wait?"

"You don't want me here?" Sherlock asked. "You do owe me a favour, Irene, after I rescued you from the terrorists."

Irene shuffled closer to him. "I suppose I ought to repay all of my favours," she whispered. "I was just wondering how we could make this more fun."

"I have a Cluedo travel set in my bag," said Sherlock, reaching for his rucksack.

"That's not what I had in mind."

Irene reached for Sherlock's hand, but he pulled away.

"Don't," he said, warningly. "I'm asexual and you're gay. We're not exactly compatible."

"Yes, we are," Irene insisted. "Just because we're not like other people. I would happily go against my inclination for you."

"What for?" Sherlock said, looking perplexed. "You have sex with men to earn money and favours - that I understand. But, there is nothing that I can give you; I've been borrowing money from my brother for the past three years. I have nothing."

"How about as an expression of your affection for me?" Irene grasped at Sherlock's hand again and this time found it.

"I'm not in love with you," said Sherlock, holding her gaze.

"Then as a sign of your admiration," suggested Irene. "I'm the woman who beat you, remember? I must be the only one who can claim that."

"You didn't answer my question. Why would you want to have sex with me when you are a lesbian?" Sherlock asked slowly.

Irene tilted her head to one side and licked her lips, as she weighed up her answer.

"People who love each other have sex," she said. "Even asexual people will have sex with their partners as a sign of their love. So, why wouldn't a lesbian have sex with the man she loves? I want to know what it would feel like for two people who are not sexually attracted to each other -"

"But, you are attracted to me," Sherlock argued. "I took your pulse, remember?"

"Ah, but that's because we were sitting by the fire, shut up in your cosy Baker Street flat. And you whispered the word, "Coventry." It was a real turn on."

"You find Coventry arousing?" Sherlock asked in disbelief.

"Of course. Your voice had nothing to do with it," said Irene, rolling her eyes. "Are all people with Asperger's asexual?"

"No, not all people. I knew one woman with Asperger's who really enjoys sex. It's no wonder that Lestrade went grey young," he muttered. He lent forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "My sexuality is a non-issue, Irene. I've never been interested in kissing, sex, women or other men, and so I've never had to reason to want to question what my orientation may be. It had always surprised me a little to hear how often people assumed that John and I were gay. But, thinking about it, I suppose that I do find women more aesthetically pleasing than men, but not in a sexual way. That makes me asexual, but heterosexual in preference."

Irene lent forward too, mirroring Sherlock.

"Then have sex with me," she said. "Because, as you said, I do find you attractive."

"No," Sherlock replied, firmly. "You have my apologies, Irene. But, I do have issues with touch and intimacy."

Irene flopped back, blinking away a few bitter tears. She was feeling overwhelmed to see Sherlock again and yet he was acting so calm it annoyed her. "You always reject me. Every time I've asked. Every time. It's selfish of you."

Sherlock shrugged, failing to notice that she was upset. He reached for his bag and began to rummage through it, eventually pulling out a toothbrush. "You're the one who is selfish and sex-obsessed."

Irene snorted and turned away her face away from him, looking in the opposite direction. Sherlock noticed.

"Oh, please don't tell me that I've made you cry just for saying you're obsessed with sex?" he sneered, curling his lip. "Which is true by the way. But, don't worry, I'm sure you could go out on the streets tonight and find someone to sleep with you."

Irene slapped him across the face. She stood up angrily, pacing the floor before staring him down.

"Let me make this obvious for you, Sherlock," she snarled, nostrils flaring. "I have been grieving for you for nearly three years! I thought that Moriarty had destroyed you! But, now I'm happy that you're alive. But, I'm also shocked and surprised to find you suddenly in my flat. And I'm angry. And I'm sad. I hate you for taking your time in coming back. I hate that you've been enjoying yourself touring Tibet and drawing monkeys, while I've been missing you. But, I love you! But, you don't love me."

Sherlock stared at her, stunned. He had never seen her be so straight forward with him. She had always been so teasing, speaking in innuendos and portraying herself as The Woman, the dominatrix who could beat any man into submission. She had always hidden behind the mask of The Woman, strong and clever enough to survive. Even when he had unlocked her phone and she had tears streaming down her face, Irene had still insisted that she did not truly love him and that it was part of the game they had been playing.

Irene was crying now, but she was no longer pretending and putting up a façade. He was seeing raw, strong emotion and it unnerved him slightly.

"I didn't think that I would be missed," he whispered. "I told John that I was a fake and I instructed him to tell everyone that. People were supposed to hate me and forget me."

He wound his legs fingers into his hair in agitation.

"Why didn't you forget?" he asked, staring at the ceiling.

"Idiot," Irene scolded. "Because John didn't believe you! And I didn't believe the stories either! How could you think that the people who care would believe such transparent lies?"

"Because with all of the evidence and doubts against me, it would be logical to believe them," Sherlock mumbled.

"Not all people are as logical as you," Irene said. "People don't think in the same way as you do."

"How you feel…is that how John…?"

"Yes, but I expect John is worse off than me because he saw you jump," Irene sighed. "When you go home he will be angry. Things won't be the same as you left them, Sherlock. You have to expect that."

"Mycroft told me that he had moved on and was happy. He had forgotten me."

Sherlock was lying back, with his eyes shut.

Irene shook her head, angrily.

"John's tough and a survivor," she said. "So, maybe Mycroft was telling the truth to some extent."

"That's what Mycroft does. He doesn't lie exactly, just warps and bends the truth in his favour," Sherlock interrupted. "It's still a lie."

"But, John loved you in his own way. I can't imagine that he's as happy as he was," Irene continued.

"I shouldn't have believed him."

"And what would you have done if you hadn't?" Irene asked. "Run all the way home to comfort your best friend? Your brother lied to stop you from doing something stupid."

"It was stupid of me to trust Mycroft." Sherlock opened his eyes briefly. "We spoke over the phone, so I couldn't decipher the expression on his face. I sometimes fail to pick up on insincerity, especially when I can't see a person's face. Mycroft is fully aware of that."

"It hardly matters now," Irene dismissed with a wave of her hand. "Mycroft did it to protect you. Get over it."

They sat in silence for a moment, but it was interrupted by a low growling sound coming from Sherlock's stomach. Irene smirked.

"I hear that you're hungry," she smiled. "What would you like to eat?"

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock shrugged, wearily.

"You have to eat," Irene insisted. But, she paused when she saw a dark, damp path appearing on Sherlock's left shoulder. "You need a fresh bandage and a clean t-shirt. I have a first-aid kit; go to the bathroom and start cleaning up. I'll be through in a moment."

Irene went into the kitchen and started to heat up some tomato soup in a saucepan on the cooker. True, it was only just coming up to five in the morning, but Irene wasn't keen on breakfast foods herself and Sherlock looked as though he could do with something warm and nourishing inside of him. She made a fresh pot of coffee and pulled off the green first-aid box from its place on top of the cupboards. She opened it up to check that it had everything she needed. She needn't have checked; it was always better stocked in quantity and diversity of items than the average first-aid kit. Forcing it's lid shut, Irene grabbed the box by the handle and went to find Sherlock.

He had already taken his shirt off and dropped into the bath. The soiled bandage lay on top. The cut on his shoulder, though loosely stitched up in a hiddly-piggly fashion, had turned the surrounding skin into an angry shade of red. It made a stark contrast to the rest of his pale skin.

Sherlock was standing in front of the sink and mirror, dabbing the blood away with a facecloth.

"Let me," said Irene, snatching the cloth out of Sherlock's hand and plunging it into the warm water in the sink. The blood that was already on the cloth was washed away, trailing faint swirling patterns of red through the water. Irene was merciless, scrubbing away the dried blood.

"You should never attempt to stitch yourself up, Sherlock," she said, frowning.

"How can you tell?" he asked.

"Because you've done such a terrible job," Irene said, plunging the cloth back into the water. "You're heading for an infection. But, don't worry, I have a very discreet friend who can patch you up properly. But, for now…" She held up a fresh bandage. "It'll have to do."

"My thoughts precisely," Sherlock managed to say, before a huge yawn overtook. "Excuse me."

Irene smiled as she wrapped the bandage over his shoulder. "You can go sleep after we've finished here and _after_ you've condescending to eat something."

"Fine," Sherlock muttered, blinking rapidly, looking drowsy.

It had occurred to Irene that this was the first time she had seen Sherlock half naked. Surely that was a little unfair given that he had seen her completely naked apart from the shoes, earrings and make-up she was wearing.

But, there was nothing that she could do about it now. Sherlock had made his views very clear.

Sherlock managed to eat half a bowl of soup with some bread before Irene took pity on him. Every few moments his eyes would close and his head would drop, before the sudden movement would jerk him awake again.

Irene insisted on him taking her bed, which he didn't bother to protest.

As soon as he had laid down his eyes were closed. Irene was about to leave, but then he shifted uncomfortably and pulled out a studded dog collar and chain from under the pillow.

He shook his head at the sight of it. "I will never fully understand you," he admitted, before throwing himself back down, the dog collar having been flung into the furthers corner of the room.

"How long will you stay?" Irene asked, taking advantage of his brief moment of wakefulness.

"Don't know," he said, his voice thick. "As long as I need to."

Irene clicked off the light and was about to shut the door when Sherlock said, "Good morning, Irene."

Irene glanced at the drawn curtains. It was still dark and it wouldn't be light for another hour or so, but she shrugged.

"Good morning, Sherlock Holmes."

Ooooooooo

In the end it was a week before Mycroft Holmes contacted Sherlock to say that he could return home. By that point Sherlock had become impatient and was starting to pace the floors of Irene's flat. The roots of his hair were darkening as the dye began to wear off and there were defiantly curls starting to show as he failed to maintain his disguise.

Irene, on the other hand, enjoyed his company. On the first morning of his visit Irene arranged for her discreet friend to replace the stitches in Sherlock's shoulder at his private clinic. After that he was all hers and she wanted to take advantage of every moment they had together.

They spent the week visiting the sights: The Empire State Building, the Statue Of Liberty and the Metropolitan Museum of Art, amongst other places. Irene was amused to hear Sherlock's flawless New York accent whilst in the company of others, but he insisted that it was essential for blending in with the crowds.

The crowds proved a big problem for Sherlock. If London was considered crowded, then it was nothing in comparison to New York. Several times over the week the sights, sounds, smells and the feeling being crushed against so many people nearly pushed Sherlock into a meltdown. He'd rather wait things out in Irene's penthouse than go sight-seeing everyday, but he could see that Irene was enjoying it, so he put up with it. He reasoned that maybe she had been lonely without him around.

It was during what was to be their last day together that Sherlock felt that a sensory overload was coming. The streets seemed more packed with people than Sherlock had thought possible and suddenly he felt far too hot.

Sherlock had always felt that his thermoregulatory system was a little dodgy, like an old boiler on the blink. His brain worked like a computer and if it was overwhelmed with information then it would freeze up, causing other running programmes to go wrong too, including the part of his brain which had control over his internal thermo-stat. Sometimes his body temperature would plummet, other times it would shoot up.

John had once joked that Sherlock was like an old woman having hot flushes. Sherlock was not amused.

Feeling like he was suffocating Sherlock grabbed Irene's hand, squeezing it tightly. At first she smiled, pleased that he was holding her hand for the first time, but then she saw his face and nodded.

"Come on," she said, pulling him quickly along the street.

He had no idea where they were going because he had shut his eyes in attempt to block out the visual information, but a few minutes later they were sitting in on a bench in the park, where it was quiet and cool and peaceful.

"You're burning up," said Irene, placing the back of her hand against his cheek. "We should get a cab back."

Sherlock shook his head, gently knocking her hand away.

"I just need a minute," he said, eyes still closed. "If you have to talk, whisper. Don't touch."

Irene nodded and amused herself by admiring the view of the park while Sherlock calmed down. After a few minutes he straightened up, rubbing his eyes.

"Better?" she asked.

Sherlock groaned. "In terms of stimulation, I think that I've just had the equivalent of twelve coffees. I won't be sleeping tonight. It'll be like the time I tried to prove to John that I could sit through Moulin Rouge without any ill effects."

"And did you?

"No. It was too colourful and nauseating. I had several clips stuck in my memory all night and they kept replaying themselves in my mind's eye every time I tried to sleep. I don't so much have a photographic memory as a filmographic one."

They were interrupted by Irene's mobile ring tone going off. She fished out her phone, raised her eyebrows at the caller's name and answered it.

"Hello, you sweet posh thing," she said, in her husky voice. "I've been waiting to hear your voice."

After a moments pause Irene handed the phone over to Sherlock.

"What do you want?" he snapped, surly. "Yes, I know, but the fact that you rang Irene made it perfectly clear what you wanted to say, Mycroft. You didn't actually need to say it to me. You could have just rang Irene once and hung up and I would have got the message….No, I'll make my own way back tomorrow…None of your business! Just make sure that my flat is ready."

He hung up and handed Irene her phone.

"Tomorrow?" Irene queried. "You could get a plane back tonight."

Sherlock shrugged, looking away. "There's no rush. And like you said, things won't be the same when I go. John will hate me."

"You're afraid," said Irene.

"I've enjoyed this week," Sherlock said stiffly, still looking away. But, once again he held onto Irene's hand, squeezing it.

Irene lent forward. "Will you kiss me, Sherlock?" she asked. "Just once."

Sherlock stared at her, alarmed. "I don't know how," he said.

"Then just follow my lead," Irene whispered, pressing her lips to his.

She immediately felt Sherlock stiffen beneath her, but he didn't pull away either. He was right to say that he didn't how to kiss; Irene felt like she kissing an immoveable statue, but she appreciated that he was allowing her do it. It was an experience she would savour all her life.

Irene felt sad when they returned to her apartment, knowing that they had only one night left together. Sherlock had taken over all of the available space, spreading his possessions out wide, but now he was gathering everything up and packing it away.

"You don't have to go," Irene said, watching his back. "You could stay with me."

"I did consider that possibility," Sherlock replied. "But, I want to go home. I am sorry, Irene."

Irene didn't say anything, just bit her lip. When she looked up Sherlock was standing right in front of her, looking worried.

"But, I will spend the night with you," he said. "If that is what you really want. I will do it for you. As long as there no dog collars involved."

Irene looked up and was sorely tempted to say yes. Instead she shook her head.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head to one side. "I'm saying that I will do for it you. I want to."

Irene pushed herself on tiptoe and wrapping her arms around Sherlock's neck was just tall enough to reach his ear.

"Because I felt you shaking," she whispered. "In the park while I was kissing you. You hated it, so I won't push you into having sex with me. I don't want to break you."

She heard Sherlock heave a sigh of relief.

"Thank you," he murmured, softly.

Irene forced a smile. "How about dinner?" she suggested.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "When you say dinner do you mean -"

"I mean dinner, just dinner," Irene said, quickly. "Restaurant, café, takeaway - I don't care."

"Okay," Sherlock nodded. "Let's have dinner."

Sherlock was gone when Irene woke up the next morning. She had intended on going to the airport with him, but it seemed that he had turned off the alarm clock at some point during the night.

The flat seemed cold and empty without him, as if he had never been there. All that he had left was a page torn from his sketch book, on it was her portrait. His initials were scrawled in the bottom corner. Irene traced the letters with her finger.

"My Consulting Detective," she whispered to herself.

_A/N: A great big thank you for everyone for reading, reviewing, favouriting and following this fic! You make my day!_

_Thank you Rayner Fox for the prompt. I hope this is okay._

_The line where Sherlock says he doesn't know how to kiss comes from the Granda Brett series in the Charles Milverton episode._

_When researching for this fic I found the asexual pride flag. It's colours are black, a greyish-blue, purple and white -it made me think of Sherlock's colours. I heard people calling his purple shirt The Purple Shirt Of Sex. Maybe it's the Purple Shirt Of Asexual Pride._

_In all honesty, I'm a little vague on the effect of sensory overloads on core body temperature. I read in Rudy Simone's book Aspergirls that her body temp shot up into fever levels after a day out sightseeing and became visually overloaded. Whilst I've read that thermoregulatory problems are common I don't know if they would occur in the way that I described. So, I'm happy to hear thoughts/opinions/corrections on that subject. _

_Thank you all again!_


	24. Cartoons

_I don't own Sherlock. Or Danger Mouse. Or Thunderbirds. Or Thomas The Tank Engine. _

Childhood Cartoons

From the blog of John Watson:

**2****nd ****May**

**Sherlock's Favourite Children's TV Programmes:**

Kids of today have no idea of the kind of television delights presented to children growing up in the 80s. Or the horrors, depending on what your view is. And because people seem interested I have worked very hard to try and tease out of Sherlock what he liked to watch as a child. Obviously, he just ignored me.

To get a reaction out of him I suggested that he may have enjoyed watching Thomas The Tank Engine as narrated by Ringo Starr of Beatles fame, oddly enough. Thomas has always seemed to be particularly popular amongst autistic children, which has been suggested has something to do with the very clear expressions on the faces of the engines and the clear-cut personalities.

Sherlock was not impressed by suggestion and told me off for making assumptions about him. "Because I have autism does not mean that I liked Thomas, John!" he spat.

Yeah, you may not have liked Thomas, but you knew what I was talking about, Sherlock. Maybe he has some bad memories of Thomas, who knows.

Either way, Sherlock would not say anymore on the TV front. Fortunately, his wonderful older brother was more than happy to fill in the gaps, although apparently there were only two…

So, here we go, Sherlock's favourite TV shows:

**Danger Mouse **- a secret agent mouse, who knows martial arts, speaks 34 languages, has a sidekick and likes getting into danger? Yeah, Sherlock, I completely believe that you were never influenced by television. I'm being sarcastic if you can't tell.

**Thunderbirds** - This one doesn't surprise me -it's just the natural step up from Thomas The Tank Engine. Look at it this way: the colours of the engines in Thomas are blue, red and green. In Thunderbirds, Thunderbird 1 is blue, 2 is green and 3 is red. In Thomas, the engines expressions stay still for long periods of time allowing the child time to correctly interpret those expressions. In Thunderbirds the makers had to change the puppets heads before they could get another facial expression. Thomas tells simple stories about social interaction, while Thunderbirds also has a large cast characters who work together each episode to reach a solution. Admittedly, the Thunderbird characters had very little personality to them, but the machines and spaceships were so cool!

**Comments:**

How on earth could I possibly be influenced by a cartoon mouse living in a highly unrealistic world? I barely remember the programme. Although, I suppose you do remind me of Penfold.

Sherlock Holmes 18:31

Who?

John Watson 18:31

The sidekick.

Sherlock Holmes 18:32

Oh. The mole. I'm nothing like him!

John Watson 18:33

He's a hamster, not a mole.

Sherlock Holmes 18:33

Still nothing like him.

John Watson 18:33

He's half the size of D.M, likes wearing stripes and always needs rescuing by D.M. You are Penfold!

Sherlock Holmes 18:34

Well, I wouldn't know. I never watched it. I suppose a childish person might remember. Someone who likes watching bad cartoons.

John Watson 18:34

Like someone who would correct their friend over whether one the characters was a hamster or mole.

John Watson 18:35

Are you not talking to me now?

John Watson 18:36

Fine. But, I bet Penfold never bothered to fetch Danger Mouse a beer from the fridge.

John Watson 18:37

True. Penfold is too much of a wimp to want to drink very often.

Sherlock Holmes 18:37

And I bet D.M couldn't hold his own anyway. He probably got tipsy at the mere whiff of beer!

John Watson 18:38

Which is still more than Penfold could take.

Sherlock Holmes 18:38

I don't think so, Sherlock!

John Watson 18:39

John, why have you fetched me a beer?

Sherlock Holmes 18:43

Because we're going to have a drinking contest.

John Watson 18:44

When did we decide that?

Sherlock Holmes 18:45

Just now.

John Watson 18:45

Did you really think that we just arguing over flipping D.M and Penfold? When I said that I bet Penfold never fetched D.M a drink, I was dropping you a hint.

John Watson 18:46

Yes?

Sherlock Holmes 18:47

Okay, let's back up. Sherlock, would like that beer which I have just left for you?

John Watson 18:47

No.

Sherlock Holmes 18:48

Alright, but would you like me to share it with you? Half each?

John Watson 18:48

Hooray.

Sherlock Holmes 18:49

_A/N: I hope you don't mind this one being a silly, short one. I was in a nostalgic mood and wanted to pass the time, so I wrote this chapter very quickly with little thought put into it._

_I have only seen 1 episode of Danger Mouse, but my older brother liked it. When I was growing up in the 90s we had quality cartoons like The Poddington Peas :P_

_I really enjoyed Thunderbirds as a kid, but not so much Thomas the Tank Engine, but all of that is just personal opinion. I put Thunderbirds in it because it focuses so much more on the action rather than social situations, and the models of the vehicles are really fascinating to look at it. So, I thought that maybe it might just appeal to someone on the spectrum. Or at least to Sherlock. But, again that's just my guess and I could be completely wrong about it. I tried to do a little research, but found nothing. _

_I just remember watching it as a little girl and probably the only one in my class to have seen it and enjoyed it. Most people I think found the puppets too strange to look at. But, I watched it fascinated by all of the different machines and vehicles. _

_On the other hand, type in something like Thomas The Tank Engine and autism, into a search engine and you will get hundreds of pages of why the programme and stories appeal to autistic children. _

_I can't really imagine a young Sherlock watching TV, but it was more the thought that if there was a programme he liked he might have watched as often as he could._

_Anyway, I'm rambling. So, thank you all for reading, even a short rambling chapter like this one! F.A.B_


	25. Mentalizing

_I don't own Sherlock, or come with the ideas behind mentalizing, mindblindness and the Sally-Anne test._

Theories Behind The Theory Of Mind

Article taken from Sherlock Holmes' website, The Science Of Deduction:

Why is it that people with autism struggle to be part of the social world? Why are they unable to pick up on the subtle cues given off by other people? Scientists have conducted some research into this matter and have so far have come up with three ideas: a fault in the mentalizing area of the brain, a lack in drive to be social and the Human Mirror System.

1 Mentalizing and Mindblindness

To be able to automatically and instinctively explain another person's behaviour by knowing what they want or think is to mentalize. Being unable to do this is to be mindblind. Tests with brain scans show areas of weaker connectivity in people with autism, such as in the medial prefrontal cortex and the basal temporal region, leading to problems with mentalizing.

That is the basic theory. However, there problems with this idea. The most important criticism perhaps is that not all people on the autism spectrum have difficulties with mentalizing. Conversely, even some have trouble with mentalizing.

We can probably safely say then that mentalizing is not a black and white, all or nothing, concept. Perhaps the ability to mentalize is yet another fluid scale which we are all on and will move along, dependent on a large number of factors such as mood, tiredness, context, familiarity with the person with whom you are socialising, etc.

I believe that I can back this up with something that I have observed. I have noted that on average John is more likely to break up with his latest girlfriend in the afternoons. Perhaps he is more tired by then and is less empathetic towards the needs of his girlfriends. Maybe if he wasn't this way then he wouldn't get through them quite so fast. After all, good communication is the bedrock of a strong relationship.

**John:** Excuse me, but the reason my relationships keep failing is because my jealous flatmate does everything in his power to split us up.

**Sherlock:** Not everything, John. It really doesn't take much to persuade you to break up with your current girlfriend, whomever that may be. I'll be happy when I see you safely up the aisle with someone suitable.

**John:** Okay, that's a horrifying thought. Just get back to mindblindness.

Very well. As I was saying even normally-developed children may fail when presented with a mentalizing task for different reasons. E.g. children younger than four years before they have developed the ability to menalize and even deaf children over four may fail the Sally-Anne test because they also experience delays in Theory of Mind.

**John:** The what-what test?

**Sherlock:** The Sally-Anne test. To make the explanation more interesting I shall replace Sally and Anne with Mycroft and Moriarty. Lets refer to it as the Mycroft- Moriarty test. Mycroft has a big chocolate cake in a box. But, before he decides to eat it he goes for a walk outside. However, Moriarty takes the cake and hides it in the cupboard to retrieve it later on. Mycroft comes back from his walk and looks for his cake in the….?

**John:** The box.

**Sherlock**: Well done. Most children of about five years would have also said the same thing because they are able to hold onto the thought that Mycroft does not know what they know. Autistic children on the other hand would say that Mycroft would look in the cupboard.

**John:** Would you have said that Mycroft would look for the cake in the cupboard?

**Sherlock:** Yes, I would have. In the Sally-Anne test I answered that Sally would look for her marble in Anne's box, rather than in her own basket. I failed this test at aged five, but would pass it in a few years time as would other children with autism. We would learn to grasp the concept that Sally's belief does not match our own, but it would take us a little longer than our peers regardless of intelligence.

Another problem with the idea is that it focuses too much on just understanding another person's behaviour and ignores the emotional aspect of communicating, such as sympathy and empathy.

That is all I really have to say on mentalizing.

**John:** But, you are going to write about the other two ideas, right?

**Sherlock: **Yes, I will. But, not right now. I can smell Mrs Hudson coming with freshly baked cake. Don't tell Mycroft.

_A/N:_ _Okay, so all of the information in this chapter comes from a book called Autism: A Very Short Introduction by Uta Frith, published in 2008 by Oxford University Press. I wanted to keep it short because although I find all of this really interesting, I can't be sure that everyone else does too. And also it's supposed to be a fan fiction and I was struggling to come up with a story to go around it, so I thought it's better to keep it short. _

_Three things I was not sure about: 1) the ability to mentalize is a sliding scale affected by a number of factors. That was just me theorising. As a N.T I can read my family members to the point that a certain glance from them can tell me what they are feeling and allow me to make a judgement on what they are thinking about. On the other hand, people I don't know are much more tricky and I don't always read correctly. This is the same for all people, but it's why I think it must depend on external factors. _

_2.) Roughly how old are children on the spectrum before they grasp the concept of the Sally-Anne test? I had read in the book that it takes them longer than peers, but it didn't specify. I know it all depends on the individual child so we can't generalise, but on average is it weeks/months/ years? _

_3.) Deaf children in relation to delayed - the reason for this seems to be just as varied as it is for children with autism. And of course being no expert I'm always a bit reluctant to write things without really understanding the info myself in case I'm wrong._

_As always I'm interested to read what you think and I apologise for anything I may have gotten wrong. _

_Thank you all again for reading, reviewing, favouriting and following! I am truly grateful!_

_P.S after putting up the last chapter I decided that I should at least the Danger Mouse opening theme on Youtube. I discovered that it has it's own channel with uploaded episodes. I watched the first episode and then wished that I hadn't. But, I at least found out that Danger Mouse lives on the corner of Baker Street in a red post box. _


	26. Motivated To Be Social

_I don't Sherlock_

Theories Of Theory OF Mind:

Motivated To Be Social

Article taken from Sherlock Holmes' website, The Science Of Deduction:

The second idea for problems with Theory OF Mind is that autistic people lack the biological drive to be social.

Evidence for this drive can be seen from birth, with even newborn infants preferring to look for their mother's faces rather than for objects. So, if you do not have this drive then you might well be a person who finds objects more fascinating than people and struggle to make eye contact with others.

However, the obvious criticism is that if this theory is correct then the signs of autism should be seen from birth, but it does not take into account that some children go through a period of regression at about two years where they suddenly stop communicating or socialising.

Also, I don't really see how a person who finds making eye contact difficult is conclusive evidence of a lack of interest in a socialising.

Speaking for myself I found looking at people's eyes an intense experience and something that I gradually trained myself to do. I would say that I was more affected by the strong emotions in a person's eyes rather than simply not wanting to communicate with them. But, because everyone on the spectrum is different there must individuals out there who don't find making eye contact uncomfortable but perhaps don't know that it's needed to communicate effectively.

I never really thought of myself lacking completely in social drive, just being naturally introverted, I.e. someone who expends energy when socialising, rather than being an extrovert and finding social situations reviving.

It's just typical of my luck that I should end up flatmates with one. We clash sometimes. Here's an extract from John's blog:

From The Blog Of John Watson:

How To Be Friends With Your Introverted Flatmate

Sherlock is my best friend. But, he's not like my other friends. He never wants to go out and have fun. Well, in a way that I would consider fun like going out for a drink or to the cinema. Instead I usually end up begging Stamford or Lestrade (thanks for indulging me, guys!), anything to get out of that stuffy flat for a few hours. But, it's not really the same.

Anyway, this is a basic transcript of what took place last Tuesday:

**Me:** Sherlock, we've been invited to go with Lestrade and some of the other detectives to the cinema. Apparently, they have an outing together at least once a year.

**Sherlock:** So?

**Me:** Let's go.

**Sherlock:** No.

**John: **Why not?

Sherlock gives me "the look".

**Sherlock: **You go.

**John:** I don't want to go on my own.

**Sherlock**: You won't be on your own.

**John:** No, I mean that I don't want to go on my own-own…

**Sherlock:** What?

**John:** If I go by myself it'll be me and _them_, the Yarders. So, I need you to come with me so that it will be us and them. Look, essentially I don't want to be the only non-Scotland Yard person there.

**Sherlock:** I can't help. Sorry.

I give Sherlock "my look", the wide-eyed, puppy-dog look.

**John:** Please, pretty please.

**Sherlock:** No, don't look at me like that -

**John:** Go on, please.

**Sherlock**: Fine!

Hurray for me! I had won a rare victory against Sherlock.

Anyway, we went to the cinema that night with a whole crowd of senior Scotland Yard detectives and has given me plenty of new material to write for the blog, which was my motivation for wanting to go in the first place. Those youths who tried to disrupt the film had no idea that there were seven official detectives (and one consultant) sitting in the row behind them and the look on their faces when six of those detectives (Lestrade was patting his pockets looking for his. I wonder where it went, _Sherlock?)_ flashed their badges was priceless. Needless to say, I enjoyed the night out. I got to see Lestrade, Gregson, Hopkins, Jones, Morton, Brown and Forbes acting as friends, rather than in the formal situation of a crime scene, the only other situation I was used to seeing them in.

And they were happy to see us, if not a little surprised to see that Sherlock had actually come.

Sherlock did not enjoy the night out. There was too much idle chatter going on for his taste. As we soon as we got back to the flat Sherlock flopped face down onto the sofa, exhausted.

"Why do people talk so much about nothing?" he moaned into the cushions. "I am never going outside again for anything less than an eight now."

I shrugged and made him a cup of tea. I was feeling a little guilty to be honest. But, never mind, I would find a way to make it up to him, like finding an interest case.

_A/N: Another short one I'm afraid. As you can see none of this theories about TOM are watertight and without problems. I think it is just a case of whatever fit's the individual best, even if it means using a combination of ideas. The last one is the Human Mirror System. I'll do that for the next chapter._

_Again, the info for this one comes from Autism: A Very Short Introduction by Uta Frith. _

_Again, I apologise for any mistakes -grammatical or factual or probably a bit of each! _

_Thank you again for all of your support everyone! For reading and your kind reviews and favouriting and following! As we say in the UK - Cheers! _


	27. Human Mirror System

_A/N: I feel a little bit uncomfortable writing about this theory because it talks about people on the spectrum lacking empathy and I don't want to say that __anyone__ lacks empathy. It seems to be a very generalised statement and even do not have perfect empathy. Also my understanding of this theory is very basic, so I may have misunderstood and got some things wrong about it. _

_I don't own Sherlock_

Theories Of Theory Of Mind

The Human Mirror System

Article taken from Sherlock Holmes' website, The Science Of Deduction:

The third idea behind T.O.M is also known as the Broken Mirror and tries to explain why people with autism may lack empathy.

In our brains we have Mirror cells. These activate when we see another person performing a certain action. So, for example if John saw me picking up a pen then the Mirror cells would light up in the same area of his brain where the activity is in mine, thus preparing him to perform the same action himself (should he need to) and also giving him insight my intentions and motivations for picking up the pen. As well as empathy.

So, if the person with autism lacks these Mirror cells then they would also lack the insight into the other person's behaviour leading to lack into automatic and instinctive empathy.

This might explain why some of our behaviour is contagious.

Yawning is notoriously contagious amongst people. However, it has been shown through a simple experiment of showing children a picture of a yawning man, that children on the spectrum are less likely to yawn than the children who are not. I find that the phrase, "monkey see, monkey do," springs to mind.

This is an interesting theory but it has been said that it still requires more research into it and not all of the initial experiments provided evidence in support of it.

2020

"Why are you are here, John?" Sherlock asked, looking disapprovingly at his friend from where he lay sprawled out on the sofa. "And why is she with you?"

"Either shift your feet or have them sat on," John said, barely giving Sherlock time to react before plonking himself down. Baby Amelia Watson gurgled happily. "You're a good girl, aren't you?" John bouncing his daughter up and down. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I wanted to visit you," he said to Sherlock. "I thought that you might still be moping now that Lestrade has retired."

"He was becoming unbearably slow. He needed to go," Sherlock muttered, sitting cross-legged on the cushions. "And I wasn't moping!"

"Do you want to hold her?" John asked, holding up the baby. She stared at Sherlock with wide blue eyes, unsure of what to make of the curly haired man scowling at her.

"No, I don't." Sherlock turned his head away. "Why don't you just go to wherever it is you're taking Amelia today? I don't want you to just drop in just because you happen to walking down Baker Street. It's pointless."

"Actually we've come out especially to visit you," John frowned.

"That's a first."

John sucked in a deep breath and instead concentrated on Amelia's serene face as she lay back in his arms. Be patient, John, he told himself.

"Can we stay for lunch then? I'll make it," he quickly added. "You look like you could with a meal yourself."

Sherlock simply shrugged so John took that as a yes.

"I'll feed Amelia first," he said, standing up. "Will you hold her for a minute?"

Sherlock looked horrified. "Put her in the buggy!"

"It's all the way downstairs. Victorian houses weren't exactly built with pushchairs in mind. I'd never get it up the stairs. Just -" John lent down and placed Amelia in Sherlock's arms, trying to fold them in the correct position. "Stop squirming, both of you!" John snapped. He was suddenly very aware of how bony Sherlock was, with sharp elbows, and he wasn't very warm either. Not exactly the kind of man many people would choose to trust their firstborns with.

Sherlock was not so much as holding Amelia as he was allowing her to lie in his arms. John sighed; he may as well have placed Amelia into the arms of a statue.

Amelia didn't seem to mind, pulling her foot towards her mouth, burbling happily.

John quickly got the baby food out and soon had Amelia back on his lap much to Sherlock's relief.

But, every time he tried to place the spoon in Amelia's mouth she would turn her head away or she would try to bat the spoon away with her chubby arm.

"She's not hungry, John," said Sherlock. "Just leave her alone."

"She's not like you," John replied, standing up again. This time he placed Amelia down on the corner of the sofa, propped up by cushions. "She just doesn't realise that she would like it if she tried." He crouched down in front of Amelia so that she could see his face and placed the spoon in his own mouth making exaggerated _mmhh_ noises. "Yummy! Daddy liked that. You try some, Amy."

This time Amelia accepted the spoon of baby purée, even if she did get some of it around her mouth.

"Why would she eat just because she sees you eating?" Sherlock questioning.

John shrugged. "Baby see, baby do, I guess. Or she only starts to feel hungry because she sees me eating it. I ought to try it on you."

Sherlock scowled, folding his arms.

Amelia suddenly sneezed. It sounded like a soft, squeaky noise. Food and snot splattered John's face. Sherlock laughed; there was a pause and Amelia started to laugh too.

"She has a sense of humour," said Sherlock.

John cleaned off his face with a paper tissue. "She always giggles when someone else laughs. And yours is very contagious."

"You're not laughing."

"I'm covered in baby snot. You!" John growled, tapping Amelia's nose, setting off another wide smile.

_A/N: I'm sorry about this chapter. I have little understanding of the Human Mirror System and as I said above I didn't really want to put that people on the spectrum lack empathy - all people are different, so saying one thing won't apply to everyone. Also, it didn't say anything about how some autistic people actually really empathise well with animals, better than people who aren't on the spectrum. Empathy is empathy, whether it goes to humans or animals. And if you can empathise with animals then you have a gift most people don't have. _

_As always if I've got something wrong feel free to tell me. I'd be grateful._

_And I apologise for how disjointed it is. I felt that in end that instead of spending more time worrying over this chapter I'd better off just putting it up as it is. And I put in the second half about a baby because I guess that babies are probably the best at being human mirrors, maybe. I don't know. Oh, this chapter is a mess._

_Anyway, thank you for all of your kind support. I am really grateful and I couldn't keep going without it. _


	28. Post Box

_I don't own Sherlock, Danger Mouse, Basil the Mouse Detective._

Post Box

Sherlock was not happy.

The Council, in their infinite wisdom, had taken the decision to remove the red letter box from it's place on the corner of Baker Street and place it on the opposite side of the road instead. They had sent out letters to the Baker Street residents informing them of their judgement, that they had spent months assessing different people's views and needs, and also gave the date of when they would move the post box and what disruptions would take place to the residents' postal service.

"Why are they moving it?" Sherlock demanded when John had absently mentioned it.

"I don't know," John shrugged. He was a little taken aback that Sherlock had even bothered to respond. He wandered over to the sofa where Sherlock was lying and held out the letter. "Here."

Sherlock ignored the single sheet of paper flapping in his face.

"Read it out to me," he said.

"Read it yourself," John huffed, dropping the letter to the floor. "I couldn't care less, frankly." He opened up his laptop and checked his email inbox. "I can't even remember the last time I posted a letter; I'm too modern for all of that. Look, I even know what btw and lol means."

"Congratulations, John," Sherlock muttered. He ruffled up his hair, irritably. "Why do they have keep changing everything?"

John hooked one arm over the back of his chair and twisted round to look at Sherlock.

"Does it really bother you that much?" he asked, eyebrow raised. "You don't even send letters."

"There's no logic to moving the post box across the street, John. It's stupid. Also, it's where -" he broke off abruptly.

"Where what?"

"Do you want tea, John?" Sherlock stood up quickly and hurried to the kitchen.

"Please," John replied hurriedly; Sherlock only every offered to make tea if he was trying to hide something so he might away take advantage of it.

"Go on," John prompted while Sherlock clattered tea cups. "I promise not to lol."

Sherlock spun round and glared at his friend. "Never use that abbreviation in spoken word _ever_ again!"

"I won't if you tell me about the post box," John smirked. "Or if you don't I will even start to use lol in place of actual laughter."

"You wouldn't," Sherlock frowned.

"I absolutely will," John nodded. "Next time you say something funny I won't laugh. Instead, I will just say -"

"Don't!"

"Lol, lol, lol, over and over again!"

"Fine!" Sherlock shouted, slamming down a cup. He cleared his throat. "You know that there was a certain cartoon I used to enjoy as a child?"

"That would be Danger Mouse?" John said, smiling.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, tightly. "And that he lives in London?"

"Lives?" John repeated, biting back a laugh.

"Lived! Existed! Whatever!" Sherlock shook his head furiously. "Anyway, his home was on Baker Street."

"Ah," said John. "And I'm guessing that he didn't live in a house on Baker Street? I mean, as a mouse he would be too small to live in an actual house."

"No-o."

John was really enjoying himself now.

"And by any wild coincidence did he live in a post box on the corner of Baker Street?"

Sherlock didn't answer, but his face said it all. John really did laugh and then realisation hit him.

"No, wait no," he spluttered. "Does that mean you chose this flat, to live on Baker Street because of Danger Mouse?"

This time Sherlock turned his back on John, immersing himself in the task of pouring out the tea.

"You're whole adult life is based on a cartoon mouse!" John exclaimed.

Sherlock stalked past him and threw himself onto the sofa, conversation terminated.

"Oh, don't be like that," John called. "It could be worse - you could be trying to live as Basil the Great Mouse Detective!"

_A/N: This is just a quick filler while I work on another chapter. I'll try to get a move on with it. _

_Thank you, everyone for reading and reviewing so often! I'm grateful! _


	29. Stanley Hopkins

_I don't own Sherlock or the character of Inspector Hopkins_

D.I Stanley Hopkins

It shouldn't have bothered him so much really, but it did. It wasn't even that he particularly disliked the man or thought him incompetent at his job - he didn't. It was just how things worked in the police force all over the country and Stanley Hopkins knew that he could either put up with it or quit. He chose to put up with it.

But, it still irritated him that instead of having his usual Forensic Officer, Michael Jenkins, working on his crime scene, he now had the bothersome Anderson, working on the time of death in his typical slow and clumsy way.

Stanley knew who the victim was. She had been one of his missing persons, now a murder victim. But, a curtsey look round told Stanley that she had simply been killed for her purse and jewellery, nothing more. He just needed the confirmation, but Anderson was being unbearably slow.

No, I'm the one who has been unbearably slow this time, Stanley thought to himself, gloomily. I should have found her sooner.

As well as having the honour of being the Yard's youngest Detective Inspector (beating that idiot, Dimmock, by eleven months and two days), Stanley Hopkins was also praised as the being the Yard's top man for finding missing people, whether they wanted to be found or not. His team's success rate almost rivalled that of Lestrade's. But, generally there were only three possible outcomes: a live body, a dead body or no body.

Unfortunately, this case had resulted in dead girl, a runaway teenager who had been hiding and it had cost her life.

Stanley wanted Jenkins back. Stanley hadn't been working in the police for very long, but Jenkins knew his ways well enough to keep an eye out for what may interest the young inspector. Anderson, on the other hand, was coming across as a buffoon.

Stanley watched him carefully from behind the yellow tape, working out why Anderson wasn't working on one of Lestrade's crime scenes. By the time Sergeant Ivy approached him carrying a coffee in her slightly chubby hand, he had it all figured out.

"He's had an argument with Sergeant Donovan," he said, nodding towards Anderson. "And now he's cluttering up my crime scene."

"How on earth can you tell?" Ivy asked, rolling her eyes towards the gloomy sky above them.

"Because normally Anderson does all he can to work on the same cases as Donovan. But, not today apparently."

"Maybe Lestrade doesn't have any cases on hand at the moment."

"No, I bumped into Lestrade earlier. He has a triple murder case to clear up."

Ivy's eyes suddenly lit up with an unexpected idea. "Sherlock Holmes," she grinned, proud of herself. "Anderson despises him, everyone knows that. Maybe he's just had enough of working with him."

Stanley shook his head and Ivy's heart fell, disappointed to be wrong.

"No, the case is an open and shut one. Sherlock Holmes is not needed. So, if he isn't avoiding Sherlock Holmes that just leaves Donovan."

"She was wearing trousers today," Ivy admitted, biting her lip.

"So, they arguing yesterday, then." Stanley suddenly looked disgusted. "Do you realise that it means she wears that ridiculous short skirt just for him?"

"You're in a bad mood, sir?"

Stanley didn't answer. But, Ivy knew what was upsetting him, so she decided to change the subject.

"How was your date last night?"

Stanley shrugged, pulling a hand through his blonde hair.

"It went really badly," he admitted after a moment's silence.

"You once told me that all your dates go badly."

"This one was terrible. She showed up five minutes late and then left again when I told her that she looked about forty."

"Oh. Why did you do that?"

"Because she asked me!" Stanley exclaimed in exasperation. "She wanted to know how old I thought she looked, so I said about forty."

"And was she forty?"

"I said that she looked about forty," Stanley corrected.

"Well, was she?"

"No."

There was a lapse in the conversation again. It didn't surprise Ivy in the least to hear that her boss' latest date had gone all wrong. But, she felt just a little bit relieved and immediately felt guilty for feeling pleased.

"You haven't mentioned my new lipstick yet, sir."

"No, I haven't," Stanley agreed.

"Why not? Don't you think it suits me?"

"No, not really."

"That's a shame," Ivy sighed, generally disappointed. "It was half price at the supermarket."

Oooooooooooo

Once back at the station Stanley relaxed a little to back in his familiar office, even if things had gone all wrong that day.

He had been half an hour later into work than usual due to a traffic accident and having to navigate a new route into Victoria. Then he had received the phone call informing him that a body matching the description of the missing girl had been found, and then as if to finish him off, Anderson had turned up on forensics instead of Jenkins.

He blamed Anderson for taking Jenkins' place on forensics. Why couldn't things stay the same way each day? There was no purpose to having a different forensics officer based on who was doing what shift.

But, then again Stanley's work revolved around people being in places where they should not be, or in the case of the dead girl, in the wrong place at the wrong time.

After nearly twenty agonising minutes of examining the body, Anderson had finally confirmed the obvious: fatal blow on the back of the head, purse and gold rings stolen. Stanley wondered why they even needed him.

After that the body had been taken away to the morgue, and the parents contacted by Sergeant Ivy. Then came the identification of the body by the unfortunate parents, followed by practised half-mumbled apologises and explanations from Stanley. That part never came naturally to him, but he was learning.

All that was left now was the paperwork and then the file on the ill-fated Sophie Daily would be closed for good.

Stanley's eyes began to feel moist. Coping with failure never came to naturally to him, either.

Outside of his office was the usual activity of people milling around, answering telephones, delivering files, chatting on their way to the canteen. It was like watching an intricate dance, the pattern of which Stanley knew that he had no hope of deciphering and following. When it came to dancing the socialising boogie, Stanley knew that he had two left feet and often fell flat on his face. But, it wasn't for want of trying.

It was probably why he could never get himself past the awkward first date with any woman he took a fancy too. He just wasn't very good at fitting in. He liked people and people seemed to like him, but there was something missing. And he wasn't even sure what that missing thing was.

But, that was the story of his life. At age nine he had been diagnosed with Pervasive Developmental Disorder- Not Otherwise Specified, or PDD-NOS for short and what a mouthful it was too. In other words he had few autistic traits which had a strong effect on his life, but couldn't easily be placed in the other autism boxes such as classic autism or Asperger's syndrome. Stanley often thought that it was bad enough that he struggled to fit in with other people, but to not fit in easily with other autistic groups was quite hard to explain to people at times.

Stanley glanced at his watch: it was six o'clock in the evening. He always ate dinner at six in the evening, even if it was just a hurried stale sandwich from the canteen. If he didn't stick to his routine he could just about cope, but he could still feel anxious about it.

Sergeant Ivy poked her head around the door.

"It's six o'clock, sir," she said, cheerily. She held up a triangular sandwich box in each hand. "Do you want ham or cheese? I'm afraid it's all they had left."

Stanley silently thanked the heavens for his reliable sergeant. She knew all about his different quirks and yet seemed happy to go along with them. Ivy acted as an anchor to Stanley on a day to day basis.

They chewed on their sandwiches in companionable silence. It suddenly struck Stanley that Sophie would never be forced to eat another sandwich again. If she ever had eaten sandwiches. Stanley wasn't sure what school aged children ate nowadays.

"Were these reduced by any chance?" he asked, turning the cheese sandwich over in his hand.

"Yes. But, they always reduce the sandwiches in the afternoon."

"Hmph," Stanley grunted, around a mouthful of sandwich.

Ivy turned her head away to smile; he hadn't noticed yet that he had crumbs all around his mouth. Instead she looked around his office, which was always full of interesting things.

There were books on philosophy and theology, and on the wall hung a copy of Plutchik's Wheel Of Emotions. It was colourful diagram shaped like a flower, designed to show how the complicated emotions were a sum of two basic emotions, as well as showing the opposite emotion. That is, if you knew how to read the diagram correctly. Which Stanley did and had told Ivy at least twice until she understood it herself.

Another quick glance at her superior officer told her that Stanley was still upset over the girl's death. Her eyes quickly latched onto the word _remorse_ printed on the illustration.

As a complex emotion it was placed outside of the flower, between two petals and was, if Ivy was using the chart correctly, a result of sadness and disgust. That seemed right to Ivy; the girl's death had been a disgusting act of human greed. But, remorse's opposite was love, a combination of joy and trust.

That was she felt about Stanley and wondered if he felt the same. He certainly seemed to trust her, more than anyone else at the Yard. He only ever really talked to her and no one else.

"We can't win them all, Stan," she suddenly said.

He looked up, surprised, abruptly broken out of his sandwich reverie.

"Pardon?"

"We can't find everyone," she repeated. "Not all the time. Sometimes we fail. It's not your fault."

Stanley nodded, looking down.

"I know," he said. Then as an afterthought added, "Thank you."

_A/N: Plutchik's Wheel Of Emotions can be found on Wikipedia. It's an interesting page about how emotions are categorised. _

_I have another story planned for Stan, but wanted to give an intro story._

_Thank you all kindly for all of your support! I'm really grateful!_


	30. The Violin Boy

_I don't own Sherlock_

Kidlock: The Violin Boy

In some ways Mycroft regretting being sent to boarding school. He of course enjoyed the feeling of independence and maturity it gave him, as well as being thrown into an environment where learning came first. But, he was still only eleven years old and there were times, particularly at night, when homesickness set in.

So, once he had completed his first half -term there he was secretly more than pleased to be spending the week off at home with his family.

As soon as he had carefully unpacked his things and folded all of his clothes neatly away, Mycroft went out into the back garden to say hello to Sherlock. It was still daylight, so Sherlock was unlikely to be anywhere else, despite the slight chill in the air.

Mycroft was pleased to find his four old brother apparently dancing in the falling leaves; Sherlock was spinning on the spot arms outstretched, before rolling back and forth on the damp grass.

"Hello, Sherlock," Mycroft called, but Sherlock didn't answer. He just gave his brother a curious look out of the corner of eye, before carrying on with his game.

"Don't say hello then," Mycroft huffed to himself.

Some of the other boys at his school had also been collected by their families, some of them with younger siblings. It was always interested Mycroft to see some of those younger children running towards their beloved older brothers and jumping on them, or hugging them. Sherlock had never done that and Mycroft doubted that he ever would.

The autumn garden was something of a wonderland for a boy like Sherlock. There were plenty of trees to climb and - Mycroft looked around in amusement - plenty of leaves to sort into piles. He walked among them trying to work out how Sherlock had sorted them. Some piles seemed to based on shape, others colour, another by type, size, length of the stem….there were at least forty different piles out there, all neatly stacked and precisely lined up row by row on the lawn. It must have taken Sherlock hours, Mycroft realised, and it was a breezy day too, so what did Sherlock do every time the wind blew?

In answer to his question a gust of wind blew, scattering leaves from their piles. Sherlock immediately stopped jumping around and began sorting the leaves back onto their correct piles.

"Can I help?" Mycroft asked.

"No." The young boy was painstakingly aligning the piles up until they made a perfectly straight line. Knowing that it would end in a meltdown if he interfered with Sherlock's work, Mycroft lent back against a tree to watch. It was a good ten minutes before he had finished and Mycroft just hoped that the wind did not disturb them again.

"What were you playing just now, Sherlock?" he asked as soon as his younger brother had finished and before he could become absorbed in his pretend game again.

"My imagination," came the blunt reply.

"What were you imagining?"

"That I was a violin playing Van Gogh."

Mycroft was a little surprised. He had only his friends' tales of their wayward siblings as a frame of reference to compare Sherlock to, and as far as he could remember not one of those siblings ever pretended to be an inanimate object, other than the occasional aeroplane or steam train. A violin seemed to be a little more unusual, especially one apparently playing a painter.

"Van Gogh was an artist," Mycroft informed him. "Not a composer of music."

"I know," agreed Sherlock, swaying on the spot, eyes closed. "Colours become notes."

Mycroft shook his head and began walking back towards the house, feeling cold.

Everyone said that Sherlock was gifted. He was certainly sensitive enough. But, Mycroft didn't think that Sherlock was simply gifted, sensitive and highly strung, there was something different about his brother.

He had told his father of his concerns, but they had been quickly dismissed, his father telling him that he was just jealous of a brother who had learnt to read faster than he had.

Mycroft wondered if he really was jealous of Sherlock, who may be more intelligent than he was, and jealous of his friends who had affectionate brothers and sisters.

In a sudden flash of envy and spite, Mycroft swept away three piles of leaves with a single kick, spreading the dead leaves into a swirling chaos. As soon as he had done it, he was horrified and ashamed, unsure of where such cruelty had come from.

Sherlock immediately began crying. He was only four and had worked hard to sort all those leaves.

"Sherlock - I'm so sorry - I -," Mycroft stammered. He touched his brother's shoulder, making everything worse.

Sherlock flinched and in reaction slammed his fist into Mycroft's side. Mycroft fell onto his backside, taken aback by his brother's strength.

Sherlock was really howling now, arms wrapped his knees as he rocked on the spot.

"I'm sorry," Mycroft apologised one last time before standing up and walking away. He would tell his mother that Sherlock was upset again once he got inside. Sherlock needed comforting, but not from him. Sherlock would never accept that.

Their relationship would always be a slightly rocky one, built upon a bedrock of misunderstandings and resentment, but it would never be a hateful one.

There would be a time in far future, when Sherlock had finally unlocked The Woman's phone, that he would call Mycroft something he thought he would never hear.

"There you are, brother. I hope this makes up for any inconvenience I may caused you tonight."

"I'm sure it shall."

_Brother_, Mycroft would never admit that it made him just a little bit happy to hear Sherlock call him that. Sherlock must have known that it would please him. But, then again, Sherlock had only called him brother as a way of apologising and probably to be a bit manipulative, knowing Mycroft would forgive him more readily.

You could never tell with Sherlock Holmes.

_A/N: I'm sorry this is another short one. But, I thought that I would leave this fic for a short while to focus on a Cabin Pressure one instead. _

_But, I have started work on a special two-parter involving Sherlock, Stanley and Lucy Lestrade. Oh, and some friendly aliens. So, once that's one finished I'll post it up. _

_Thank you, everyone, for all of your wonderful support. For reading, reviewing, favouring and following. _

_I'm always bowled over by the amount of kind reviews I get, especially thanks to Rayner Fox, Whirlwind412, Fernsfairie, cim902, Barabak1 - you guys are always reviewing and always make me smile. But, I am grateful to everyone!_


	31. Losing Things

_I don't own Sherlock_

**Losing Things**

**From the Mind Box of Anderson:**

I won't pretend that I like Sherlock Holmes. I will admit that he is not a psychopath. I got it wrong.

Ok, so I did call him that once or twice, but I didn't know then that he was on the autism spectrum! The man has very flat emotions (apart from when he's grinning over a body or when he's accusing people of being idiots) and called himself a sociopath. I wasn't the first or last to say that people who don't show emotions are psychopaths. But, like I said I got it wrong and I will forever be ashamed of it. Not for Holmes' sake, but for everyone else on the spectrum.

It doesn't help much that the term Asperger's Syndrome wasn't coined until 1981 by Lorna Wing. How old would Holmes would have been back then? Just a kid. Was he one of the first to be diagnosed as Asperger's?

Anyway, before that, was the term was _autistic psychopathy. _Not a nice sounding term for English speakers, but it was Dr Hans Apserger who named the condition he was researching, of people who had difficulties integrating themselves socially. He was Viennese and the word psychopathy translated from German relates to a person's personality, rather than saying that someone has a mental illness. Which is the impression we get over here. But, the stigma was still there and so Wing did well to rename it. A lot of stigma still remains.

Sherlock just doesn't look autistic.

I know what you're going to say - do I expect all people with autism to be constantly sitting in a corner rocking? Do I think that people with ASD can't be brilliant too?

No and no….well, I don't know what I was thinking. I just don't know that much about autism. I will freely admit that I know nothing and I don't understand what it's like.

I will try to learn.

The first I knew of it was when Holmes lost his phone at a crime scene. Or rather he realised that his phone was missing while at a crime scene.

He had just finished inspecting the body, stood up grinning, reached into his right coat pocket and….frowned. He tried the left and then the inside pocket.

He glared at John. Poor man, I don't know why he puts up with him.

"Where's my phone?" he demanded.

John shrugged helplessly. "I don't know."

"It should be in my coat. I always keep it in my coat!"

Holmes was beginning to look agitated, frantically checking his pockets again.

Lestrade shuffled awkwardly on the spot. He had wanted to get Holmes off the crime scene as quickly as possible, knowing that the Chief Superintendent had taken a special interest in the case and had promised to "pop down" to see the latest body the serial killer left for us. He would not be impressed to find a neurotic civilian, currently feeling under the body in the hope of finding his mobile there.

"Can't you just tell us what you know and look for you phone afterwards?" he asked.

"I want my phone!" Sherlock shouted. Lestrade winced. "Did you take it?"

"Of course not! I never move your things!"

Apart from during fake drug busts, I thought. Which had been very enjoyable, by the way.

I was starting to feel embarrassed by the spectacle - a fully grown man having a childish tantrum over losing his favourite toy. It wasn't normal. And he was mucking up the crime scene by crawling around on his hands and knees searching for the stupid thing.

John was trying talking to him, trying to calm him down, but it wasn't working. Lestrade was doing nothing, except standing back. I had to do my job of preserving the crime scene.

"Does it matter?" I snapped. "We have a killer to catch and your only concern is your phone!"

He swore venomously at me. That was new. John waved at me to step back.

"You can't remember when you last saw it because you're flustered," he said in a low voice to Holmes. "You have a photographic memory, so you will be able to remember when you _calm_ down. Take your time and relax. Breathe."

Lestrade tapped my shoulder, jerking his chin over a shoulder, a signal that he wanted to talk to me. I took one last look at Holmes and John kneeling on the grass and I was almost certain I could hear Holmes repeatedly clicking his fingers.

Lestrade explained about Holmes' Asperger's. Asked me to be patient.

I am patient! Most of the time. No one can deny that Holmes is insufferably rude and arrogant at times. Even if he didn't have Asperger's he would still be that way. Sherlock Holmes will always will be Sherlock Holmes.

Two minutes later a pale Holmes rushed through a long-winded explanation about how the murder was done and ran off to track down the taxi he had travelled in, and now which had his mobile hidden under the seat and after it had fallen out of his pocket.

I was left to try and restore order to the crime scene and hoped that he hadn't destroyed any evidence. I also found his house keys. I dutifully handed them over to Lestrade to return to their owner. I will never like Holmes, but I don't hate or blame him for having Asperger's.

**A/N: Hans Asperger's term in German was **_**Autistische Psychopathen im Kindesalter. **_**Autistic psychopathy in children. Although, of course, he wasn't referring to mental illness. **

**Thank you for reading and reviewing everyone! **


	32. Body Language Expert

_I don't own Sherlock_

Body Language Expert

Sherlock and John were bored.

Sherlock and John were watching television because they were bored.

Sherlock and John were playing a game while watching television because the reality programme they were watching was boring.

John was loosing.

"She's having an affair," Sherlock said, before yawning.

"He's has low self-esteem due to his bald patch," he said a minute later.

"She's jealous of the other girls shoes," he observed two minutes later.

He threw John a glare who was staring at the television screen with an expression of the utmost concentration.

"Am I playing this game by myself, or are you going to be making a contribution any time soon?" Sherlock asked.

John held up a hand. "Just give me a second…ah, yes! You see the blonde woman on the right?"

"Ye-es…"

John's face split into a grin of triumph. "Well, she's happy right now."Sherlock rubbed the side of his face. "And?"

"And what?" John asked.

"Is that the best you can do?" Sherlock asked, irritably. "Oh, and that dog is feeling lonely."

"Oh, give me a chance," John huffed, dropping his chin into his hand. He looked up at Sherlock. "How did you get to be so good at reading body language? I thought that people with Asperger's were supposed to struggle with this sort of thing."

Sherlock's scowl deepened. "You may be an idiot, but I'm not. I learnt and practised to read body language. And now I'm expert and better than most . I can read you like a book. You were about to offer me a cup of tea."

John rolled his eyes and stood up. "Yes, well done. I was, but only because I could see that you wanted one. You always rub your lips just before you ask for one. I can read you too."

Sherlock waved his arm at the TV. "Then why are you so terrible at reading strangers? This is supposed to be instinct for you."

"Because they're strangers and I've been living with you for over a year now."

Sherlock shook his head in his disappointment.

"And because I'm not the world's only Consulting Detective," John added.

Sherlock smiled as he clicked off the TV.

**A/N: Thank you for reading and reviewing! **


	33. Wedding

_I don't own Sherlock_

Wedding

John is getting married in two days time; it is the only selfish action he has performed during our long friendship.

I don't understand why John and Mary feel the need to marry. There is no real point to it. They tried to come with good arguments for their actions, the main one being about an expression of love. But, I do not see that as a good reason and they have long since given up trying to explain it to me. I understand their logic, but I still can't quite grasp hold of understanding it.

I have never shared John's deep-seated need for highly emotional relationships. I am quite satisfied with the few relationships that I do have: John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, and begrudgingly, Mycroft. I do feel that if I had more people in my life, or if I was more emotionally invested in them, I would be overwhelmed and push them away. John requires people in large doses and I in much smaller doses.

Our lives, our friendship, will not be the same again. John has already moved out of Baker Street and in with Mary. The flat feels very different without him.

John keeps trying to reassure me that things won't change that much between us and reminding me that our friendship has suffered more terrible events than a simple wedding. He was of course referring to the faking of my death. It took some time for him to forgive me for that. But, he has forgiven me. But, whereas my death only lasted a short while, his wedding will, supposedly, last for all of his and Mary's lives. Between his day-job at the clinic and adoring wife, I doubt that John will have time for solving cases with me. I do not understand why John wanted to change that.

They have been engaged for eight months. They have left it that long to give me time to adjust to the idea of John moving out. It was a wasted sentiment. I'd rather they told me I did not have to attend the ceremony. I'd rather stay at home and rearrange my sock index while I wait for John to return from Honeymoon. But, then again, I would have a very long wait

I am to be John's Best Man, of course.

The upside of being the Best Man was being able to organise John's Stag Night: a Murder Mystery Night at my family's old manor house. Mycroft has yet to see the damage done and I look forward to seeing his angry face. It always makes me laugh.

I had created the Mystery myself, so I selflessly volunteered to play the role of the murder victim. I had no choice, really. I would have solved it if anyone else had written it.

However, after three hours no one had solved it and I had become very bored. I am still disappointed that even John failed, even when I had tried to whisper hints to him from where I lay on the floor.

"Shut up, Sherlock!" he said, slurring his words due to the alcohol. "You can't even be dead without telling people what to do!"

In the end, I was asked to reveal the solution. Unfortunately, I found that I had deleted the answer as an extra precaution against people trying to manipulate it out of me. Even when I had looked over the clues myself I couldn't figure it out. It seems that I had created the perfect, unsolvable crime.

People are worried that I somehow won't be able to cope on the day, that I will find it too overwhelming. Possibly. But, I have long since learnt how to cope being in a large crowd of people. I far more resilient than I was as a child. Besides, formal, predictable situations are easier to tolerate than informal ones and John has told me many times over the order of service. I believe that it has helped to calm his own nerves as well as mine.

The only reason I am truly nervous is because I know that it means our friendship will change. In what way, I am not certain. There are too many variables for me to make a reliable prediction. Simple rules of psychology give friendship a scientific aspect which I find comforting, but psychology can only teach me so much.

I keep asking myself the same questions over and over again: how long do you have to leave a newly wed couple alone before it is appropriate to see your friend again? Will Mary want to be involved in our cases too? Will John even want to solve cases with me? How much time is John supposed to spend with his wife and how much time with his friend?

They are questions which I have obsessively been imagining different outcomes for, but I still can't arrive at a solid conclusion. There are too many various factors, too many possibilities I can't possibly foresee. In the end I give up in frustration, but that just leaves me feeling confused and uncertain.

I know that I will miss John. I have come to rely on him far too much as my emotional barometer, occasional guide in a perplexing world, secretary, accountant, blogger, and personal shopper.

In some situations my AS gives me wings and places me above other people. I am able to solve puzzles in a way that leaves them in awe. In those situations I see my Asperger's as being an intrinsic and valuable part of my self.

But, in other situations those wings suddenly morph into a millstone around my neck and drags me down, past others and threatens to let me sink into depths of chaos. On those bad days I see my AS as nothing more than a hideous burden which controls who I am, rather than being part of what I am.

Maybe one day I will find true peace with my AS, but at this stage in my life I often switch between those two opinions. There is no right or wrong answer.

I have sunk into chaos before, towards the end of my university days, when the world seemed so harsh and unpredictable, I turned to drugs to soften it's impact upon me. Mycroft dragged me out of those murky depths by the scruff of my neck, kicking and screaming.

John was always far more gentle. He was like a dolphin who instinctively knew when I was about to start flailing; he would carefully push me back to the surface when I needed support, but allowed me to swim on my own when I didn't.

Somehow he always knew what I needed and feeling, even before I was aware of those things myself. He knew when to talk, voicing the concerns I felt but could never clearly express in words; he knew when to stay quiet and when to quietly warn me that I needed to calm down; during the times when I was overloaded he would both literally and metaphorically stop me from getting lost. After an overload and I would unwind in my bedroom, he would bring me a cup of tea. It was a simple of gesture of sympathy, but one I greatly appreciated.

But, there were times when we didn't understand one another. It was like we were trying to observe each other's worlds through a stained-glass window, our perspectives distorted by the brightly coloured glass. Occasionally the window would open for us and we could see one another eye to eye without misinterpretation. Those were the best of times. But, mostly we had to do our best with what we could see of one another.

I know that John's marriage will distort my vision of our friendship. Just when I thought that I had learnt all of the rules, the game is about to change once again. I shall have to depend upon John and Mary's patience and counsel to guide me through these unknown waters. I will make mistakes along the way and so will they.

And I have no doubt that once I believe that I have adapted to their marriage and understood the new rules of being friends with a married man, then something else will happen to change our friendship once more. A child, maybe. Or perhaps they will move far away. At this stage I have no way of knowing. What I can be certain about is that relationships are never unyielding or still, they are malleable, constantly evolving and morphing into something new.

I can only hope that our friendship is flexible enough to survive all of the changes that will batter and pummel against it, forcing it to change shape, maybe, but never shatter.

**A/N: Thank you for reading!**


	34. Funeral

**I don't own Sherlock**

**Funeral**

John had inadvertently picked a bad couple of weeks to go away on holiday with Mary. Lestrade had required Sherlock's help in catching a pair of re-offending art thieves (rather petty thieves by Sherlock's standards, but Lestrade, having already arrested them many years before, was determined that they would be scared witless by the Consulting Detective tracking them down and would be persuaded to stay on the right side of the law for good) and it was whilst Sherlock had been chasing the pair through the streets that tragedy struck.

He had just dashed across the road and was about to take a shortcut down an ally to cut the thieves off, when from behind him he heard the sound of car brakes screeching, a metallic thump and then the growl of the car speeding off again.

A glance over his shoulder revealed a dark figure lying in the road. A car was racing off down the road, defiantly over the speed limit.

_Hit and run_, Sherlock thought automatically.

For a moment he dithered uncertainly on the spot. He was supposed to be catching the thieves. If he started running now he would still have time to catch them.

He looked back at figure, too far away for him to see which gender or age, stretched out and unmoving.

Over the years Sherlock had hardened to unexpected changes in routine and they were part of his life now to the extent that most people didn't believe that he had a daily routine. He did, but it was just too complicated and subtle for people to notice. He could cope with change. But, when it came to suddenly switching from one task to another, his mind would seem to freeze, especially when it meant leaving the first task only half finished. He required precious seconds to process a new plan.

As a child Sherlock had received a rather strict, moral upbringing (not all the morals had stuck with him into adulthood) and very early on his parents had realised that all important life lessons would have to be continually repeated to him before they would actually take root in his mind.

_Help people when you see them in trouble. _

And the classic: _Dial 999_ _in an emergency. _

His parents had even insisted on him learning basic First Aid, which always came in useful for a Consulting Detective. Their theory was that the more eventualities he was prepared for, the easier he would find it to adapt to unforeseen situations.

It was the memory of these simple rules that snapped Sherlock back into action. As John was fond of reminding him, a human life was more important than solving any case. So, Sherlock ran back across the road, calling for an ambulance on his mobile.

It was a young girl who lay in the road, anywhere between eight and ten years, and Sherlock could immediately see that there was nothing practical he could do for her, other than draping his coat over her. He knew that he should try and be a comforting presence to her, but he wasn't sure how he could make the circumstances seem any better. His parents hadn't taught him that. He held her hand because he knew that's what people did for each other, but it seemed rather pointless to him.

The ambulance came too late.

oooooooooooooo

Mycroft waited with ever decreasing patience while Sherlock stood in front of the mirror haphazardly doing up the black necktie. The results were slapdash at best.

"Why do I have to wear a tie?" Sherlock demanded, frowning at his reflection as he incorrectly flung the narrow end over the wider half. "I never wear ties."

When Sherlock had been a child he had come close to adding dyspraxia to his catalogue of labels. His unusual posture, the difficulty he had with walking up and down steps and his delayed ability of being able to tie his shoelaces correctly had highlighted him to his teaches as a possible case. But, in the end it was decided that Sherlock simply did not meet enough of the criteria for a diagnosis. Although, there were times when Mycroft would notice his brother clipping a door frame with his arm because he had walked to close the post, or banging his shin against the coffee table.

"I can tell," Mycroft muttered, and then more loudly, "You know why you have to wear a tie."

"I don't _actually_ have to!"

Mycroft decided to decline replying to that. Sherlock was arguing in order to cover up his nervousness of attending the hit and run victim's funeral. If he really resented the tie that much he would have refused to have put it on in the first place.

Mycroft stared at the crooked, backwards tie, trying to resist saying anything. But, the unevenness of the knot was distracting. Even Sherlock seemed to find it irritating as he glanced at it in the mirror, grunted in annoyance, and pulled it loose in order to start the agonising process again.

Mycroft couldn't bear to observe a second attempt. He propped his umbrella up by John's armchair and stepped forward, holding out his hands.

"Here, let me," he said, quietly.

He was a little surprised when Sherlock silently pressed the necktie into his hands without protest.

Mycroft deftly flicked Sherlock's collar back up and draped the tie around his brother's neck.

"How did you manage at school?" Mycroft murmured, quickly folding and wrapping the two halves into a neat knot with a dexterity that Sherlock had never achieved, despite years of playing the violin. "And stop fidgeting!"

Sherlock huffed in annoyance, but ceased to jiggle his foot.

"Before I boarded, Mrs Stevens did it for me every morning. After that there was a girl who attended during the day who was more than happy to tie it for me. I never had to learn until now."

"So, it's because of a lack of practise and motivation then," said Mycroft, pushing the knot up towards Sherlock's neck and turning the collar back down.

"Only by your standards."

"Perhaps. There, is that comfortable?"

"No."

Mycroft sighed, but reached under the tie, slipping the top button on Sherlock's shirt undone and adjusting the tie to cover up the gap. He didn't think that it was too likely that people would notice.

"Why do I have to go?" Sherlock asked, throwing himself down in his armchair.

"You know why."

"In theory. I just don't understand. Funerals are so pointless. I didn't even know the girl."

Mycroft fussily pulled on his gloves and picked up his umbrella.

"You were with her when she died. The family want you there. It'll help them and give you a chance to pay your respects."

Sherlock nodded, breathing out noisily through his nose.

"Should I cry?" he asked. "How upset should I look?"

Mycroft dropped Sherlock's coat and scarf into his lap, giving Sherlock's questions some consideration. His brother needed real answers. As unlikely as it was Sherlock had never attended a funeral before; a lack of family and friends had prevented it.

"You don't need to cry," he said, eventually. "And you don't need to force yourself into looking upset. Don't be offended, brother, but you are looking rather ruffled by this experience. I don't believe that any acting is required on your part."

"I'm not upset!" Sherlock snapped, wrapping his arms around his stomach. He drew in a deep breath. "They'll want to talk to me, won't they?"

"I imagine so, yes."

"What will they ask?"

"What do you think they'll ask?" Mycroft threw back, glancing at his watch. He aware that they were on the verge of being late, but he had timed it that way. If they arrived at the church with only a few minutes to spare then they could slip into a pew at the very back and avoid the awkward conversations that would take place before the start of the service. "Let's go."

Sherlock was silent throughout the car journey, staring obstinately at his phone while Mycroft kept giving him tips on how to behave. With every piece of information Mycroft passed on Sherlock seemed to scrunch up even tighter, withdrawing even further.

"I know that at the end of the service you'll want to bound straight up to the parents and get the conversation out of the way as quickly as possible," Mycroft went on. "But, we should allow the extended family and close friends talk to them first. We'll hover, make sure that they can see us and allow them to come to us when they're ready."

By the time the car had pulled up in a narrow side street near to the church, Sherlock was looking positively white.

"Can't we just go home?" he muttered tightly.

"No," said Mycroft, his hand already on the handle, ready to swing open the door.

"They will ask what I said to her, did for her, before she died." Sherlock was staring hard at his hands.

Mycroft removed his hand from the car door.

"I'm not certain that they will," he said. "As unlikely as it sounds a church service is a time for believing that death is always peaceful and painless. Especially for a funeral of a child. Questions are either asked before or after, or even not at all."

"But, it wasn't peaceful and defiantly not painless. She had been smashed by a speeding car. It wasn't calm or gentle. Or pleasant. Just because she was below the age of eighteen doesn't mean that her death was somehow more - more…" Sherlock struggled to find the right words, but in the end gave up with an agitated shake of his head. "Death is death no matter what age a person is. It's ridicules to have any pretence over the matter."

"So, will you tell her parents that if they do ask you for more details?"

"Yes!….No….I don't know. But, there's something that feels almost disrespectful about pretending that she slipped away quietly or that she was too delicate to hold on for the ambulance. She had been killed by a drunken man driving way over the speed limit. They should be angry."

"They are angry, Sherlock. But, for today they will hold it back. Today is a day to celebrate her short life. The bitterness and fury will be held back until they've had a chance to say goodbye properly."

Sherlock sighed, slumping back in his seat and pressing his fingertips to his eyes.

"Murderers are much easier to understand," he mumbled. "They tend to act as they feel. No pretences."

"Quite. Now, are you ready?"

"So, if they ask I should say that she didn't appear to be in any pain?"

"Yes; but they don't _need_ to be told that she had suffered. They will have visualised those final moments a thousand times over before today, asking themselves if she had seen the car, if she had been afraid, in pain... They don't need _you_ to tell them that because deep down they already know. So, for today let them pretend that she died in a quiet and dignified way. Besides, I imagine it's more likely that they will thank you for staying with her and ask you how you're coping with the ordeal."

Sherlock snorted. "Thank me? I held her hand, that's all! If it had been John in my place he would have -"

"Done what?" Mycroft interrupted, sounding irritated. "For goodness sake, Sherlock! You seem to believe that John is somehow more human than you are, but he isn't! You noticed her! You called the ambulance! You kept her warm and held her hand! You stayed with her during her final moments. I'm intrigued to know what John would have done differently or better than you?"

Sherlock scowled. "He would have somehow connected or clicked with her, made her feel she wasn't alone, even though she was unconscious. I'm not able to do that. I'm always stuck outside of the loop. There's always a current running between people, like electricity. I don't have that. I may as well not have been there at all. She died alone and afraid."

Mycroft laid a heavy hand on Sherlock's shoulder, firm and comforting.

"Touch is a way of connecting," he said, quietly. "As I know you are aware. A physical presence can be a way of expressing emotions which can't be conveyed in words. By holding her hand you were telling her that someone cared, that she wasn't alone. Just because you connect in a different way to people, or sometimes struggle to do so, does not make those moments of connection any less valuable than other people's.

You prevented a little girl from dying on her own in the road. Her parents will be thankful for that. John Watson could not have done better."

With that they went into the church. When the service was over the family saw and recognised Sherlock and came to talk to him. As Mycroft said they thanked him for staying with Emily and asked him how he was coping. The father shook his hand and the mother kissed his cheek. Then they moved on to speak to the other attendants before it was time to head off to the crematorium. Sherlock and Mycroft took their cue to slip away quietly.

**A/N: Thank you for reading! **


	35. Spacey Sherlock

**I don't own Sherlock**

**Spacey Sherlock**

Today is going to be another "zoned-out day", I can tell. I woke up twenty minutes ago and have spent the time lying on my back staring at the dust motes lazily floating in the beam of sunlight in the gap in the curtains.

They occur more often than people would think from what they read of me in John's blog. My levels of concentration and focus are so low, that I find myself constantly slipping into daydreams or spacing out altogether.

But, unlike daydreaming, spacing out is a sort of a mind fog. I have no thoughts, I just go blank. It's almost like a shut-down moment. But, unlike during a shut-down phase spacing out can be a refreshing and relaxing experience.

When I was younger I would often space out.

Mother would have to work hard to regain my attention. Usually, if an object had caught my attention then she would remove it if she could. Mostly calling my name would suffice, or snapping her fingers. If I was looking away she would gently take hold of my chin and direct my gaze back to her.

I'm not sure how she viewed my spacing out: some days she seemed to see it as therapeutic, other days it was deemed unhelpful to my development. Sometimes if I was clearly tired she would allow me to stare into space until I was ready to come out it myself.

Spacing out usually happens when I don't want to concentrate or am feeling bored; so, they occur most often after a long case. I resent the waste of a day but it's better to spend a day with my mind in a fog then avoiding it and risking a meltdown.

I've heard some people say that they will space-out through out each day for a few seconds or minutes at a time. My spacing out seems to save itself up for one day in which I end up wondering or lying around with a blank expression on my face. I believe this is because I when I am on a case or working on an interesting experiment, I can concentrate for long periods of time. But, when something fails to interest me, then I zone out.

I decide that if I going to be like this I may as well indulge in a bath.

John and I both have en suits attached to our bedrooms, which avoids all of the complications of having to share a toilet and shower. However, if a bath is desired then the main bathroom is on the second floor of the house.

It always feels good to have the even pressure of the water pressing against my body. I sink under the surface, enjoying the sensation of the warm water swirling around me.

My mother used to be surprised by just how much time in the bath seemed to relax me, and was even more willing to hold her hand as we walked down the corridor to my bedroom.

I found it difficult to tolerate my mother's touch. I know that she desperately wanted to hold me, but unless I was the one to initiate the hug, then I would simply feel overwhelmed by her holding me and would push her away. But, I did want to be held.

Then she remembered a technique she had heard about used to break in wild horses and desensitise them to human touch.

The horse is placed inside a narrow box, like a trailer, with other horses on either side so that he can take comfort from their presence. His head sticks out of a padded hole at the front. A chute above him opens, spilling sand into the box from an overhead hopper, so slowly that the horse does not notice it's happening until the level of grain reaches his belly. He might tense up for a while but when the sand has fully covered him he is left with a firm pressure which calms him. While he is relaxed his trainers will rub his head, to gradually help him become used to touch. After about fifteen minuets the sand is drained away through a hole in the floor.

Recalling how much time I would spend in the bath with the water over my head, my mother was curious to see if taking me swimming would create a similar effect to that of the horse slowly covered in sand.

She would wait until I was immersed up to my neck and then she would try holding me. With the water around us it I was more tolerant. She gradually built up the contact between us. I was never fond of being held, but whilst in the water I was more relaxed and could tolerate her holding me. During one session I fell asleep with my head on my mother's shoulder. She sat crossed-legged for ages in the shallow end while I was on her lap the water reaching up to my neck. We would spend ages swimming under the surface together.

When I do finally come out of the bath I dress in my comfy pyjama bottoms and an old t-shirt, turned inside-out so that the seams won't rub against me.

In the living room I pad happily back and forth across the bare floorboards. They have a wonderful, grainy texture to them which feels amazing to walk across.

I then flop back on the sofa, wriggling my toes against the cushions.

On days like today I find myself completely absorbed by tiny details - the shape of the bullet holes in the wall, the smudges on the window, the light reflecting off the vanish on my violin…

Tiny details which would normally lead to deductions. But, not today. Today I can only observe.

I hear someone far away calling my name, but I don't register it. Someone taps my shoulder.

It's Mrs Hudson. She's looking at me expectantly. If she's just said something then I completely missed it. Today my attention is like a car trying to drive across an icy road, I'm sliding around trying to find my grip, but my attention is just sliding off.

My gaze slips back to the wallpaper, where the late morning sunlight is shining. I can spend hours staring at the patterns, noticing the tiny differences, every slight mark, which destroys the perfect repeating pattern. Especially when there's light shining, highlighting, altering the hue…

A firm pressure on my chin and Mrs Hudson gently turns my head back towards to her, locking eye contact with me. Her eyes are hazel, amber.

"Are you okay, Sherlock?"

"Hmmm."

"I've just told you that you have a client waiting, love."

A client? That's all I need to hear to snap me out of my reverie. I quickly find myself focusing again.

"Are you going to see him?" Mrs Hudson asked.

"Of course, Mrs Hudson," I grin, swinging my legs off the sofa. "Send him up and make us a pot of tea if you've nothing better to do."

Mrs Hudson bustles off, muttering furiously under her breath. But, I know that she loves me too much to refuse.

**A/N:** **I read about the horse being covered in sand in Temple Grandin's Thinking In Pictures. The machine was built by Robert Richardson. She compares the similarities of the positive effects of applied pressure created by her squeeze machine to that of Ricahrdson's machine. **

**Thank you for reading and reviewing! **


	36. Summer Fun

**I don't own Sherlock**

**Summer Fun**

Lucy Lestrade was enjoying her birthday. There was something about theme parks that made her feel like a little child again. She wasn't fond of crowds, but the exciting atmosphere, the bright colours, the food and the rides themselves, were a joy to be a part of.

They had gone after the end of the school holidays and in the afternoon, so that the crowds would not be too overwhelming. Their strategy was rewarded as there was few people around and the lines short.

Lucy set her eyes on a double loop rollercoaster and was about to lead the way when Greg called her name.

"Lucy, I think that some of us might need a break."

Lucy blinked. She knew that usually when a person says, "I think," it actually meant, "I'm certain,"; and when Greg said, "Some of us might need a break," he really meant just Sherlock.

The consulting detective was sitting with his back against a tree, looking a little dazed, while John Watson pressed a bottle of water into his hands.

Lucy hovered, looking back towards the rollercoaster and Sherlock. She had hoped that Sherlock would have enjoyed the theme park as much as she did, but apparently not. They had been there two hours and he hadn't been on a single ride, instead spending the majority of the time staring at his mobile phone or reading a heavy hardback novel, as he sat guarding the bags while the others queued up.

But, there was no reason why she couldn't go on the rollercoaster.

Greg firmly held her hand, tugging her in the direction of the tree. "Come on," he said. "It's not going to go anywhere."

"But, it's my birthday, Greg!" Lucy protested. "John can look after Sherlock."

"Lucy, you wanted Sherlock to come. Begged him in fact. And now that he has you should make sure that he's okay."

Lucy sighed, but followed after Greg.

Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on the ground now, sipping slowly from the bottle of icy cold water. John was carefully studying the park map.

"Are you going to be okay?" Lucy asked, sitting next to Sherlock.

"I'm fine," Sherlock grunted.

"No, you're not," John said, turning the map over. "You keep zoning out."

"Greg said that you need a break, Sherlock," said Lucy. "But, I don't need one."

"Well, I do!" Greg protested, fanning himself with his hand. "It's too hot."

John handed the map to Sherlock, pointing to a spot with his finger.

"There's a café there. Why don't we go and -"

"I don't need to be treated like a child!" Sherlock snapped.

"I'm not," John replied, with forced calmness. He held up his hands in mock surrender. "It's up to you what you. You can stay here, go to the café, or even go on a ride. Just don't allow yourself to dehydrate or have a meltdown. That would be childish."

"Enough!" Greg said loudly, stopping the brewing argument in it's track. "Look, we're all getting hot and bothered here -"

"I'm not," Lucy interrupted. "I just want to go on the rollercoaster. The park closes in an hour and a half."

Greg gave his wife a hard look, wishing that she hadn't interrupted him. Lucy looked away, starting to feel uneasy. She had been having fun, but now it seemed that everyone else was getting tired and fed-up.

John shook his head. "Sorry. How about I go with Lucy and you two go to the café?"

Lucy nodded eagerly and stood up. She handed her bag to Greg and bounded off, leaving John to hurry after her.

Greg slung Lucy's bag over his shoulder. He looked down at Sherlock. "Are you coming?"

Sherlock nodded and slowly stood up. He followed after Greg.

At the café they found a table in a shady corner.

Greg often marvelled at how much Asperger's could affect Lucy and Sherlock in different ways. He knew that his wife loved the motion of roller coasters and other theme park rides. Sherlock, it appeared, couldn't even look at a roller coaster without feeling nauseous. Lucy would go almost dizzy with happiness and excitement when surrounded by people who felt the same, such at festivals and Christmas, even if she was more content to observe that crowd from a distance. Crowds were more of a challenge for her on the streets when they weren't gathered together for a reason. On the other hand, Sherlock was tolerant of crowds on the streets, but was overwhelmed at other times.

He was slumped down in the white, plastic chair, eyes closed. Greg decided it would be best to leave him in peace for a while, placing an icy fruit drink in front of him. He relaxed back in his own chair, enjoying the feeling of sunshine on his face.

He was grateful for Sherlock and John for coming. Normally, it was just him and Lucy at the theme park every year for her birthday. Greg smiled to himself. Lucy was over fifty now, but she barely looked forty. He had heard before of other individuals on the spectrum who aged slowly. Autism hormones. Lucky woman. While he only aged. Once whilst shaving in the morning Lucy had started crying. She said that it was one of the saddest experiences in the world to see people getting older, wrinkle by wrinkle, grey hair by grey hair.

He hadn't been offended, just sad on her behalf. It made him wonder though. If Lucy was observant enough to see that happening, then Sherlock must see it so much more clearly. What was it like to see people getting older day by day?

He questioned if Sherlock was dozing or just sitting quietly. Even if he asked about how Sherlock viewed aging, Sherlock wouldn't tell him and he could never read Sherlock's expression. Another clear difference between Lucy and Sherlock.

Lucy's emotions were on display for all to see in bright blazing colours. Sherlock was always more flat, unless he was feeling a strong emotion; any facial expression he did display were quite often exaggerated and clearly forced, or just plain inappropriate, like smiling gleefully at a crime scene.

Greg looked up and saw John approaching. He loudly rapped the table top with his knuckles. If Sherlock was asleep than he would be embarrassed for John and Lucy to see him so worn out. Sherlock jerked back into alertness and straightened up just as John appeared -without Lucy.

"W-where's Lucy?" Greg asked, standing up to peer over John's shoulder, expecting to see his wife trotting along quickly after him.

"She said she needed to use the loo," John said, absently. "Are you feeling any better?" he asked Sherlock.

"You just _left _her?" Greg demanded.

John looked confused, while Sherlock rubbed his face, an imitation of John's annoyed look.

"I said we'd meet her here," he said, slowly, looking between Greg and Sherlock. "Why is that a bad thing?" His voice rose a notch in pitch. "You seriously weren't expecting me to accompany her to the toilet?"

Greg ignored the doctor, already heading off in the direction John had just come from.

Sherlock eyed John wearily. "Lucy has the worst sense of direction I have ever seen in a person," he explained. "She can loose her way even places in which she is familiar."

John groaned. "And she won't have her phone with her because it's in her bag." He straightened up, looking around as if expecting to see Lucy hiding behind a chair. "Okay, okay. I'll go help Greg look for her. Maybe she hasn't gotten herself lost," he added, hopefully.

"That's very optimistic of you. I've seen her loose her way around Baker Street."

"Fine," John huffed. "Are you just going to stay here?"

"I think so. Unless you want me to vomit all over -"

"Just stay put in the shade!" John interrupted. The image of Sherlock throwing up was not a pretty sight. "I'll text you when we've found her."

As soon as John had disappeared from sight, Sherlock decided to have a little rummage through Lucy's green, fluffy rucksack. John and Greg were just assuming that she didn't have on her mobile on her, but he knew that Lucy was terrified of loosing it. He was proved correct when he found that her mobile wasn't among the other items inside her bag, which meant….

Sherlock pulled out his own phone and called Lucy. He felt immensely smug when she answered after only one ring.

"I think I'm lost," she said, sounding a little sorry for herself.

"Don't worry," Sherlock replied, leaning back in his chair. "No body ever gets lost from my directions. I take it that you're by the Pirate Swing?"

"Yes! How did -"

"Never mind that now. Just walk towards the circular flower bed with alternating rings of red and purple flowers, where there's a gardener working, whose Great Aunt died last May. Possible April. It was hard to tell from where I stood. Anyway, walk around the flower bed until you can see….."

**Ooooooooooo**

John and Greg hunted all around for Lucy, but with no luck.

"We're going to have to ask for help," Greg sighed, running a hand through his greying hair. "Get the staff to help look for her."

John nodded, feeling slightly flustered himself. The day wasn't ending on the high note that he had hoped for. His mobile suddenly chimed it's text alert noise.

**Sent 8.30pm**

**Where are you? Lucy and I are getting bored.**

**SH.**

John breathed out a heavy sigh of relief.

"She's with Sherlock," he grinned.

Greg grinned too. "Thank goodness for that! Come on before they get bored and wonder off without us!"

When they made it back to the café, Greg treated Lucy to a tight hug, while Sherlock scowled, drumming his fingers on the table top.

"Can we go now?" he demanded. "I have an experiment waiting for me."

"Yeah," Greg murmured, brushing the hair from Lucy's eyes. "Let's go home."

During the journey back, Lucy twisted round in the front passenger seat to beam broadly at Sherlock and John.

"I'm glad you two came today," she grinned.

"You're welcome," John said, carefully placing the photo of Lucy, Greg and himself on the Rapids ride back in his bag. "I like theme parks and I don't get to go to them very often."

Lucy nodded and turned back to face the front of the car.

"Which leads me to ask," Greg said, the smile evident in his voice. "Why did you come along, Sherlock? You obviously hate rides and theme parks."

Sherlock grunted and slid further down in his seat. He closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep and fooling nobody.

"Because I asked him to," explained Lucy. "And because I've hidden Billy the Skull. I've promised to give it back to him tomorrow."

Greg and John laughed loudly.

"Couldn't you find it, Sherlock?" chuckled Greg, trying to drive straight on the motorway.

"Shut up!" Sherlock hissed.

"That's interesting," John said, feigning innocence. "Because I seem to recall Mrs Hudson taking your skull the second day we met. Are you just not very good at finding things?"

Sherlock stared stubbornly down at his mobile phone.

"It's because he only thinks to look in places where he would hide something," Lucy piped up. "Places which only he and nobody else would think of. You always over complicate things, Sherlock. You need to think more simply."

Sherlock ignored her and everyone else for the rest of the trip.

**A/N: I wrote this one very quickly, so please forgive any mistakes and the rushed-ness of it. **

**Thank you for reading and reviewing!**


	37. Mental Repetiton

**I don't own Sherlock**

**Repeating Thoughts**

Around….

_Are you wearing lipstick? You weren't wearing lipstick before. _

_I…just refreshed it a bit. _

_What happened to the lipstick?_

_It wasn't working for me._

And around…

_Are you wearing lipstick? You weren't wearing lipstick before. _

_I…just refreshed it a bit. _

_What happened to the lipstick?_

_It wasn't working for me._

Goes extracts from a conversation I had four months ago…

_Are you wearing lipstick? You weren't wearing lipstick before. _

Thoughts looping, repeating, stuck on a cycle….

_I…just refreshed it a bit. _

Over and over again.

_What happened to the lipstick?_

_It wasn't working for me._

Stop. I want to sleep. But, it just happens. My mind is stuck on a loop.

_Are you wearing lipstick? You weren't wearing lipstick before. _

_I…just refreshed it a bit. _

_What happened to the lipstick?_

_It wasn't working for me._

Just stop. The thoughts are tedious. I have heard people referring to their repeating thoughts as a form of mental stimming; it helps to insulate them an overwhelming sensory environment. I sometimes find myself playing with words because its quite fun to do; verbal stimming, maybe? Lipstick is actually quite pleasant to say.

_Lipstick, Lipstick, Lipstick._

_Sticklip, work, sticky lips, lippy, re-lipped, freshed-stick. _

It drives John mad to hear me muttering my favourite words under my breath, or blending two words together.

_Are you wearing lipstick? You weren't wearing lipstick before. _

I throw my pillow away in frustration, but it does little to release my anger as it bounces harmlessly off the wall and flops back on the bed. Instead I start to think about the ingredients of lipstick. Focusing my mind helps to block the loop in my thoughts.

Lipstick can contain several different types of wax. Beeswax, ozokerite, candelilla wax….

Chemical formula for beeswax: C15H31COOC30H61

Ozokerite was once known as earth wax.

Candelilla wax's E number is E 902. Also used as a binder for chewing gum and in varnish.

…

The next morning I wander out into living room and collapse onto the sofa.

"Rough night?" John asks, the smirk obvious in the tone of his voice.

"I just refreshed it a bit," I say before I can stop myself.

John looks up from his laptop, one eyebrow raised.

"What?" he asks.

I press the heel of my hands into my eyes. If I can appeal to John's sympathies he might make me a cup of tea.

"I couldn't sleep," I say, more loudly.

"Oh. Do you want a cup of tea?"

Thank goodness John's behaviour is so predictable; the process involved in scientific experiments and John's actions are the only kind of repetition worth experiencing.

"Please," I murmur sleepily.

**A/N: I apologise that this is such a short chapter. **

**I know that all people get things stuck in their heads, especially catchy songs. But, I think it's probably a more intense experience for people on the spectrum. I've people saying how single words will repeat in their heads or even snatches of past conversations. **

**I've heard that when a song gets stuck in your head it's called a Mind Worm. **

**But, I have to ask: does anyone else get visual clips repeating in their mind's eye, rather than verbal ones? I quite often see clips from TV shows, films or something that really happened to me. Just wondering.**

**Thank you for reading and reviewing!**


	38. Block Out The Noise

**I don't own Sherlock**

**Block Out The Noise**

Once again the wisdom of the local council had led them to deem that the Baker Street road was in need of a good resurfacing and thus accordingly sent out their minions to push leaflets through the residents letterboxes, informing them of:

A) what was to be done

B) how they were going to do it

C) insisting that they have to do it and that everyone should be grateful their cracked and potholed road was going to repaired, until it inevitably cracked and crumbled again in a few years time.

D) the only vehicles which be allowed on the newly surfaced road would be the resident's vehicles. Nothing else. Not even taxies.

E) that if the residents are silly enough to chose to walk over the newly laid tarmac while it was still sticky then there was a high chance that they would walk tarmac into their houses and no one really wants that.

F) parents should take extra precaution not to allow their children to wander into the path of the bright yellow roller or truck.

The bottom line was that road resurfacing is an inconvenient, noisy and smelly business, which lasts several days, as hot tarmac is dumped, spread, squashed and rolled into a smooth surface, like a flapjack mixture being pressed into a tin. For people whose senses are not highly sensitive it would be an annoyance; for people who have hyperacusis and an incredible sense of smell, it would be hell on earth.

**Two weeks later when the resurfacing begins….**

Sherlock was frantically pacing back and forth with his hands clamped over his ears. He was still in his pyjamas despite it being late in the morning and dressing gown, his hair was sticking up wildly.

John silently placed a cup of camomile tea down on the coffee table. Sherlock had had asked for coffee, but John had decided that his friend could do without any stimulants. He was feeling slightly frazzled himself; it was tiring seeing Sherlock so stressed out.

As John had expected, Sherlock had not taken kindly to the road being resurfaced. The hustle and bustle were irritating enough, without all the noise and the overpowering stench of hot tarmac, which permeated it's way into the house.

"Why don't you sit down for a bit?" John suggested, gesturing at the sofa.

Sherlock ignored him and continued pacing, tugging at his hair. John winced and hoped that he wouldn't have to try preventing Sherlock from ripping whole chunks of his black hair.

"Sherlock -"

There was high-pitched whine and a pneumatic hiss, followed by a low rumbling noise as outside a lorry tipped up it's contents. Sherlock halted in his tracks, gasping at the racket.

"I can't take it anymore!" he yelled. He ran to the window, throwing it open. "You're all bastards!" he bellowed at the workmen.

John's eyes widened in shock, but he at least managed to slam the window shut again before Sherlock could scream more profanities at them.

Sherlock fell onto the sofa, drawing his knees up his chest and rocking slightly.

"We have _got_ to go out for a bit," John groaned. "How about we go riding in Hyde Park? I know they're always happy to slip you into a free slot and you haven't been for ages."

Sherlock shook his head, staring hard at the space in front of him.

"Why not?" John asked, quietly.

"I can't escape this," Sherlock muttered. "It'll be waiting for us when we get back. It'll be there when we wake up tomorrow. There's no point. Besides, horses are highly sensitive to the mood of their rider. I don't see why the horse should have to suffer this just because I am. I can't do it. I can't get away."

"You're being irrational."

"No, I'm not!" Sherlock snapped, furiously shaking his head. "From now on, every time I'm stressed I'll smell the tarmac! Every time I hear a lorry, I'll remember this and flinch! It's called associative thinking! I can't help that, but why can't you just shut up?"

John dropped down into his armchair, flexing his hands open and shut. Sherlock was being horrible, but he couldn't blame him for that. It was only natural to lash out when afraid or in pain. He just had to do his best to support Sherlock.

"I can't think!" Sherlock moaned. "John, what should I do?"

John looked up at his friend in some surprise. Sherlock was staring at him wide-eyed and pale, looking to him for help and to be told what we do.

"We'll go out," John said, firmly. "Somewhere that smells more pleasant than tarmac and isn't noisy. You'll feel better, I promise."

Sherlock nodded slowly. He didn't look convinced.

At first John dragged Sherlock around the museum, but even that left Sherlock withdrawn and tired. The road works had primed Sherlock's nervous system for a fight or flight response, and stimuli which Sherlock could normally tolerate were now unbearable. There were too many people and too much visual chaos in the form of oversized paintings, broken pieces of pottery crammed behind display cases, and busy tiled patterns on the floor for Sherlock to relax.

The sights and sound began to blur together, leaving him feeling nauseated and bumping into John as his coordination deteriorated.

"Maybe we should head back now," John said, as Sherlock slumped down on the bench inside the gallery, his eyes closed. "You look like you need to sleep."

Sherlock dragged his arm over his eyes, slumping down further.

"I'm too overloaded to sleep," he groaned. "It's worse than overdosing on caffeine. I'll be awake all night. Anyway, how could you expect me to sleep with everything going on in the street?"

"Well," John shrugged, tentatively. "Have you tried listening to brown noise?"

"No."

"Oh, well, it uses lower frequency sound to make a sort of rumble -"

"I know what brown noise is!" Sherlock snarled. "I said that I've never tried it!"

John held up his hands in mock surrender, falling into silence.

"Let's go home," said Sherlock, standing up.

By the time they got back to 221B work on the street had stopped for the day. Sherlock flopped heavily onto his bed, feeling tired and achy all over. He never normally went to bed so early in the evening, but he felt too wound up to do anything productive anyway.

There was soft tap on the door. John stuck his head in, waving his Ipod in front of him.

"I've downloaded some brown noise for you," he said, stepping over the threshold.

Sherlock huffed loudly and stuck his head under the pillow. There was a gentle knock as John placed his ipod on the bedside table.

"I wouldn't suggest it if I didn't think it would help. It's supposed to be good for sleep, so at least give it a try. It won't do you any harm."

Sherlock waited until John had left the room before cautiously picking up the ipod and putting in the earphones. It couldn't do any harm to try.

It took a little getting used to the static sound rushing out of the earphones. But, it reminded Sherlock a little of falling rain and gave something to focus on in the growing gloom of his bedroom. He fell asleep quite quickly after that.

For the next few days while the resurfacing was being completed Sherlock kept hold of John's ipod, wandering around the flat, listening to the brown noise in an attempt to block the outside dim.

It helped a fraction. Both John and Sherlock counted down the hours to when the road would be fully repaired.

**A/N: This is a prompt for Isayan. I hope I did ok and thank you for the idea. If anyone else has any requests please let me know and I'll do my best with your idea.**

**This chapter was written whilst listening to brown noise. It is quite soothing and seems to have helped improve my concentration because I can't normally write so quickly. **

**Research on road resurfacing (fascinating it is not) on wikipedia has informed me that here in the UK we frequently use the word tarmac instead of asphalt concrete. **

**Thank you to everyone's reviews and thoughts on the last chapter! You're all very informative. I will make sure that I will reply to everyone. **

**FrancisGamble-Too - thank you for you reveiws! I have been sending PM to your fan fiction account. I hope you've been getting them and not thinking that I've been ignoring you! If you haven't been receiving them please inform me and I'll see if I can message you in another way. **

**Thank you everyone for reading and reviewing! You're all really kind and supportive! **


	39. Executive Dysfunction

_I don't own Sherlock_

**Executive Dysfunction**

John had been living for a couple of years with Sherlock, and people were beginning to notice that John had adopted some of Sherlock's A.S behaviours. He was a little more blunt, and a little more irritable in a noisy environment. He was also more willing to argue with Sherlock.

"The flat needs cleaning," he said, flopping back on the sofa and picking up a magazine.

"Then clean it," Sherlock replied, bringing his microscope back into focus with a twiddle of the dial.

John flicked through the pages of the TV guide. "No. You do it."

Sherlock ignored him, engrossed his experiment.

"Fine, then."

John sat up and pulled his mobile out his pocket, fingers dancing over the buttons.

"I'll just have to hire us a cleaner," he said.

Sherlock's reaction was immediate. "What? No! I don't want some stranger touching my things!"

"Then clean the flat!" John retorted.

"I don't want to. I'm busy."

"Well, think about in this way, Sherlock of the Dump: clients will not come to you in this pig-sty. Do some tidying and you may be lucky enough to find a client who's brave enough to wander in here."

John stood up and made his way to the door, his progress slowed by having to step over so many different stacks of books, magazines and other odds and ends lying on the obscured floor.

"I'm going out. I'll see you later. Remember, polish and dust first, vac after."

"Shut up," Sherlock hissed, as the door slammed shut.

After he had heard John's footsteps reach the creaky first step at the foot of the stairs and the bang of the front door being pulled to, he ran his sharp eyes over what Mrs Hudson had recently referred to as the "bomb site."

Perhaps John had a point about the clients; and appearances were important, no matter what people said. He couldn't command his air of authority if he wore a pair of tatty jeans and an old t-shit in place of his suits.

So, Sherlock decided to clean.

He bit his lip, thinking. Planning for such activities was not his strong suite. The problem with cleaning anything was that there was no clear end to the task. Potentially he could keep cleaning for days and still not be finished. How was he supposed to know when something was clean enough for John's standards? And where was he supposed to get started any way?

He determined that doing some laundry might be a good place to start. At least with that chore you knew when you were finished after the washing was dry and folded away.

The washing machine cum tumble dryer was a tiny thing, squashed under the counter in the kitchen area. It looked a forlorn, forgotten puppy that nobody really wanted. It also made squeaky noises to match when spinning at full speed.

Sherlock frowned. He wasn't fond of that squeaking noise. He placed the laundry basket on the table top, stuffed high with damp bath towels and opened up the washing machine door, giving the drum an experimental spin. It whined pathetically.

It suddenly occurred to Sherlock that for all his years on the planet, he had never ever taken a washing machine apart to find out how it worked. That was not right. Swiping the screwdriver out of the kitchen drawer, Sherlock set about taking the top of the machine off, eager to discover the mysteries inside. Maybe he could find a way to make it work more efficiently too.

Two hours later and John returned home to find that the state of the flat had not been improved one little bit. But, he could hear movements coming from the kitchen.

He stomped around the corner to find Sherlock sitting cross-legged in front of the washing machine, watching it intently as it spun _silently_ in front of him.

"What the hell -" John began, but Sherlock cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"Shhht," he breathed, not taking his eyes off the spinning clothes. "What can you hear, John?"

John tilted his head one side. He could hear the machine vibrating on the floor, but surly Sherlock could not be referring to that.

"Nothing," he said.

"Really? I can hear many things," Sherlock replied, smugly. "And one those things is an absence of a squeaky washing machine." He threw out his arms in front of him, in a ta-dah pose. "I fixed it!"

"It wasn't broken!"

"I improved it."

"You were supposed to be cleaning the flat!" John grumbled.

Sherlock glanced around the messy kitchen, almost as though he had forgotten that he had been sitting there. "What? Oh, I became distracted."

"Clearly," John muttered, turning on the kettle. He sighed heavily, "Let's just wait for Mrs Hudson to clean for us."

"Good idea."

"And you can fix the washing machine the next time it breaks."

**AN: Apologises for another short chapter. I realised that I hadn't updated in a while, so I quickly typed out this one. I have started working on prompts. **

**I've executive dysfunction being used in the context of projects (e.g. school/business) and also cleaning. I don't know if it actually applies, but I have heard some people struggle to organize themselves when it comes to housekeeping. **

**Thank you for reading and reviewing!**


	40. Sherlock and Stanley Meet

_I don't own Sherlock_

Sherlock and Stanley Hopkins Meet

Sherlock was not suited to hot weather. He hated it. He hated the feeling of not being able to escape the irrepressible heat and having to deal with dehydration, sun stroke and sun burn. He hated not being able to wear his coat and scarf, feeling lost without them. But, most of all he hated how often he suffered a sensory overloads during the summer months: the way the air shimmered in front of him, the bright flashes of light bouncing off moving cars, the stench of hot tarmac, barbeque and sweat, music blasting out of stereos, lawn mowers, people out and about everywhere.

And top it all off he had a cold. There was nothing worse than not being able to breath properly through your own nose during a heat wave.

He slumped down further into the taxi seat, keeping his eyes directed at the back of the driver's head. He had given in and put on his sunglasses, but it wasn't a perfect solution.

"You could have told Lestrade you're not well," John said, staring out of his open window, enjoying the breeze. "Everyone has sick days occasionally." He was at his best in summer, wearing short sleeves shirts and somehow never perspiring. Sherlock didn't know how managed to stay so cool.

"You don't really believe that," Sherlock croaked, in a low voice. "Not with another dead woman…" He sniffed loudly.

John ran his hand back and forth on the seat next to him. Sherlock winced slightly at the harsh sound it made. His hearing was becoming hyposensitive.

"You're right," John said, eventually. "Sick or not, you need to see the crime scene as it is."

Sherlock allowed himself a small flicker of a smile. But, the air coming through the window was loud and he was starting to feel a small flutter of anxiety in the pit of his stomach.

John closed the window. He must have noticed Sherlock's discomfort.

"I still feel harsh for pushing you so hard," he said in a low voice. "Just take a look and see everything you need to see, then spend the next day or two in bed. You can go back to the case when you feel better. You have a photographic memory so there's no risk of you forgetting anything."

Sherlock didn't answer, too busy trying to block out John's voice and doze for a few minutes trying to fend off an overload. He had no intention of following John's suggestion. There was a serial killer at work and every minute counted.

Ooooooo

Greg Lestrade and Stanley Hopkins had joined forces for their latest investigation.

Greg and the other Inspectors had once put Stanley to the test by showing him two copies of the lost Vemeer painting - one of the original painting and the other of the forged copy.

Greg had informed Stanley that he was looking for one difference between the two copies and that Sherlock Holmes had found it in ten seconds.

Stanley did it in five.

Of course, he didn't know that the extra blot in the middle of the forged nightscape was supposed to be a supernova, but at least even Sherlock had the good grace sound suitably impressed when Lestrade texted him. Stanley, on the other hand, brushed his victory aside, complaining that everyone was getting excited over nothing.

And now Lestrade was looking forward to seeing how the two of them would work together for the first time.

He should have known better.

oooooooo

D.I Stanley Hopkins had gone ballistic when he had clapped eyes on the consulting detective strolling across his crime scene.

"Hey, hey! Stop right there!" he snapped, running across to block Sherlock's and John's path. "You can't come in here!"

"I'm sorry, Inspector, we haven't actually met in person," Sherlock began.

John looked at his friend dubiously. Sherlock only ever took the polite approach when nothing else would work.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes and -"

"I - I know who you are," Stanley stuttered in anger. "But, civilians are not allowed on a crime scene. Please go back behind the police line."

"Sherlock, maybe we should go," John muttered. But, Sherlock was not going to give up so easily, even if his patience was starting to wear thin.

"Lestrade asked me to come and take a look. Ask him."

"I know that he asked you," Stanley replied, shortly. "But, you are still not allowed on a crime scene, or have access to any information until we decide that it can be released to the public. It's against procedure."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Oh, I see. So, you want me to solve case without actually taking a proper look!"

Stanley nodded enthusiastically, strands of blonde hair falling into his eyes.

"Behind the tape, yes." He held his arms out wide, herding them back across the line. "The bright yellow tape which has Police Line Do Not Cross, repeatedly stamped across it."

Sherlock looked as though he was really about to loose his temper when Lestrade appeared, immediately taking stock of the situation.

"Stanley, can I have a word?" Lestrade asked, throwing an apologetic look at Sherlock and John. "Best if you two wait here a moment."

Sherlock huffed loudly, but stayed where he was. Lestrade and Stanley had moved just out of ear shot but John could tell from Stanley's body language that Lestrade was trying to persuade him to allow Sherlock in.

"Have you done something to annoy Hopkins lately?" John asked. "I thought that you had never met him."

"I haven't," replied Sherlock, shaking his head. "But, Inspector Hopkins finds it difficult to cope with anything or _anyone_ who bends the rules in the slightest. Just by standing here we're pushing him towards a meltdown. Which is why I'm still waiting and haven't gone ahead as I would with anyone else."

"That's kind of you," said John. "Has this anything to do with him finding the supernova on the Vemeer in half the time it took you?"

Sherlock scowled. "He had the original as a reference. I didn't. If I had, I could have spotted the supernova in two seconds."

"Then both of you are very quick."

"We both have a Weak Central Cortex, yes."

John raised an eyebrow. "Since when you do admit to having a weak anything?"

Sherlock sniffed loudly.

"I don't. Weak does not mean poor in this instance. It means that we focus on the small details out of their overall context. For example, the Lost Vemeer - could you have spotted the difference between the original and the copy?"

"Maybe if I was given a year or two," John grinned.

"Exactly. You are able to see all the details as a whole picture, whereas Stanley and I are able to see individual details independent of the overall painting. Which was why the added supernova stood out so clearly to him. I doubt that he even noticed that he was looking a nightscape."

Stanley was walking back towards them, his jaw clenched tightly.

"Inspector Lestrade says you're allowed to look at the body now," he said, looking between them with darting brown eyes. John could imagine the internal struggle that was going on inside his head.

"Thank you, Inspector," said Sherlock, pleasant enough. "Maybe you can lead -"

"No wait," said Stanley, blocking his way. "Sergeant Ivy!" he called, over his shoulder.

A slightly chubby woman who had been talking to a shaky looking man turned her head.

"Sir?"

"We need three crime scene suits over here. Right away."

"Sir!" Ivy hurried away to grab three packs.

"I don't need one, thanks," Sherlock said.

"No. You have to wear one," stated Stanley.

"Inspector, he can't," appeased John. "I'm happy to but -"

"What's the hold up?" Lestrade asked, there was a hint of impatience creeping into his voice. "Stanley, I said that Sherlock could come in."

"He won't wear a suit," said Stanley.

"I won't wear a suit," Sherlock said, at the same time.

"What?"

"Here we go," said Sergeant Ivy, cheerfully dropping the three packs into Stanley's arms. "Happy sleuthing, gentlemen."

"Stanley, please," Lestrade appeased. "Sherlock can't wear one. He has sensory issues. Anderson knows by now to automatically screen out his DNA, so can we please just get on a move on?"

Stanley thought about it for a moment, before finally nodding.

"Thank you," Lestrade said, sighing heavily. "Uh, why did you ask for three suits? You're already wearing one."

"It's for you," said Stanley, pushing the pack into Lestrade's hand. "One was for Mr. Holmes, which is no longer needed, and the last one is for Dr Watson."

John had to bite the inside of cheek to stop himself from laughing at Greg's face.

"I couldn't help but notice, Greg, that you have started to forget to wear one, ever since the serial suicide case," Stanley went on. "I don't want you to get into trouble."

"How kind."

Stanley nodded. "Mr Holmes and I will go on ahead while you and Dr Watson put on your suits."

When Sherlock and Stanley had disappeared out of sight, John noisily blew out a breath as he tugged on his crime scene suit.

"Is Hopkins always like that?" he asked.

Lestrade zipped his suit up to his chin. "You have no idea."

"Do you think they'll get along?"

"I was hoping so. But, now I'm so not sure. A rigid rule follower and a self-proclaimed sociopath with a cold - I think we'd better hurry before they rip each apart."

John nodded grimly and followed Lestrade, hoping that it would be over soon.

**AN: This is supposed to be fulfilling a prompt for Cjkteach about following rules. But, I don't think I've done a very good job. Apologies. But, it is 3am in the UK. Thank you for the prompt, Cjkteach. **

**Thank you for reading and reviewing. **


	41. Author Note

Author's Note:

Sorry, everyone. I know it is against Fanfiction rules to leave a non-fiction message as a chapter, but I don't think I'll be updating for a while.

I'll work on the other prompts I haven't written up yet.

Thank you, everyone.


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